Angel Hands
by Kate September
Summary: A 'ghostfree' Opera Populaire reopens. A cynical ghost matches wits with the manager's daughter in a game of love, lust, betrayal, power and fortune...the game of life.
1. Chapter 1

Mireille Dubienne was a spinster.

A pushy, sour-faced, and unfortunately educated spinster of twenty-seven. There was really nothing her father could do with her except to keep her busy, working for him as a kind of private secretary. It was a job she was well-suited to, being pragmatic, detail-oriented and persistent. It was the only job she could do, as keeping house and making babies seemed well out of the running for her.

Mireille adjusted the thin spectacles up the bridge of her nose as she stirred a precise amount of sugar – one and a half spoons – into her demitasse of café. Her father glanced at her across the breakfast table and held in a small sigh of disappointment.

It wasn't that she was unmarried that bothered him. It was that she seemed unhappy, and that the smiling, laughing girl that had been his total joy and light had drowned in a darkness that had crept upon her as quietly but surely as night overtook day.

It also wasn't that she was unattractive – for a spinster. She had soft coils of honey-colored hair and hazel eyes that tended more toward green than brown. Her features were small, and though not remarkable, perfectly nice-looking. She was slender and moved with a coiled grace.

Pierre Dubienne released his sigh as he sipped his café. His happy little Mireille had seemed to dissolve into the impenetrable mists of some dark, quiet woman who had forsworn love and all the coquetteries and courting that accompanied it. At times, he caught himself thinking of her in the way he would have thought of a son – a man of affairs with a keen mind and an unshakable sense of honor.

Well, there would be no son to inherit the Dubienne fortune, but Mireille would be an admirable guardian of it. But Pierre Dubienne would have traded every last sou if he could only have seen his daughter smile with the light of love in her eyes.

"Eh bien, ma cherie, you really think that this is a good idea?" Pierre asked, tackling a piece of toast with a knife loaded with butter.

"It's a sound investment," Mireille replied, taking small, careful bites of her croissant. "It will all depend on the way we promote the reopening, but that is not hard to do well. And I have an idea that will not fail to fill every seat on opening night, or for many nights after that."

"Oh dear, Mireille," Pierre laughed. "You know how I worry when you begin to talk like that. You are so frightfully…"

"Competent?"

"Exactly!" the older man chuckled. "So, shall I go ahead and sign the papers tomorrow?"

"Please do," Mireille replied evenly. "And by the end of the week, I hope to present you with my plan, complete with budget, for the restoration and reopening of the Opera Populaire."

"So frightfully…"

"Competent?"

"Frightfully competent, my dear," Pierre said with a smile that was tinged with sadness. "Have you ever thought of being a little less…"

"No."

Pierre sighed. "I didn't think so."

* * *

The quest for redemption and a normal life had lasted all of three months. It wasn't that Christine's kiss had dimmed in his memory or that its effect had diminished. The holy fervor he felt when he recalled her touch still made him weak in the knees and clutch at his throat in an agony of ecstatic adoration and pain.

It was simply that there were certain practicalities of life that had not changed, even if he had. And one of those practicalities, unfortunately, was the fact that half of Paris' gendarmerie was out for his blood.

He had plenty of money in his bank account, but a fat lot of good it did him when he couldn't walk into a bank to withdraw it, or couldn't rent a flat without meeting the well-meaning and suspicious concierge, or…or…

Without Madame Giry, he was a prince disguised as a pauper, reduced to shadows and thievery, despite the millions of francs in the name of Erik de Persie in the vaults of Credit Lyonnais.

In the end, he had slunk back to the burned out hulk of the opera house, taking refuge in the ruined crypt he had once called home. It had taken him the better part of three years to make the place habitable again and to rig up certain basic functions within the opera house so that he could have some comfort.

He foraged for food and clothing, burgling shops far enough a field from the opera house that no one would suspect the return of the opera ghost.

The one advantage he had – meager and measly compared to all that he had to once again endure as a walking dead man – was that now that the opera house was empty, he could climb to the roof and bask in the warmth of the sunlight without fearing to be seen. But that was small consolation for living in a cave under an opera house.

* * *

And then…and then, that damn, blasted day when his sanctuary, his private cemetery, his final resting place was invaded! He watched from the flies as two older gentlemen and a young woman picked their way across the charred, dusty debris that still lay strewn about the stage.

"I say, Dubienne," quavered the first older man, removing his top hat to brush some dust off the top of it – immediately, Erik shifted so that more dust drifted down. "What about that ghost fellow? You think he's going to mind having some new managers?"

"Carcasonne, you are an unmitigated chump," the second older man chuckled. "Do you honestly think that the fellow would stay here? This place is like a tomb – cold enough to freeze a dog's balls off."

Carcasonne threw a shocked glance at the young woman, who seemed utterly unmoved by masculine language that was more suited to the smoking room than mixed company.

"Even so, I would be much happier if we sent some stout men down to the cellars to make sure that ghost is gone," he said with a frown.

"You'll do no such thing."

Erik started, almost having forgotten the presence of the young woman in the midst of his red rage at fate's cruel, cruel sense of humor. The young woman spoke quietly and forcefully, but without ever lifting her voice.

"In fact, if there isn't an opera ghost still in residence," she continued matter-of-factly, "I have a good mind to hire one."

"Hire one?" Carcasonne looked bewildered.

"Indeed." A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested she was pleased with her own cleverness. "After all, there are other venues for opera now. But there is only one place where patrons can come to experience a haunted opera house."

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle Dubienne."

"We promote the re-opening of the Opera Populaire as free of ghosts and tragedies," she said simply. "Then, we have an opening night where one or two little things are odd. People will talk. And not wanting to receive second-hand news, their friends will come to experience the delicious little thrill of a little bit of danger when something quite simple but quite significant goes wrong."

"My dear, what if the ghost fellow is still here?" Dubienne said.

"Then I'll pay him 5 francs for every 50 franc seat he fills."

Carcasonne let out a great guffawing laugh, then stopped abruptly, seeing that the young woman wasn't laughing and instead looked deadly serious.

"Look here, Mademoiselle Dubienne. You are quite well-meaning, but perhaps you had better leave these business affairs to your father and myself. Your ideas are quite charming, but I am afraid they are taxing your composure too much."

"Nonsense, Monsieur Carcasonne," the young woman replied crisply, a delicate shading of ice in her voice. "Don't be ridiculous. If we re-open as just another opera house, we shall be bankrupt by the end of the season. Our gimmick is our ghost, at least until we have our feet underneath us financially and can move on to the next scandal and sensation by stealing away the best and most renowned performers."

Carcasonne looked at Dubienne, appealing to him silently for support. But Dubienne was lost in admiration of his daughter's cleverness and business acumen.

"Well, I suppose I can live with a ghost for one season," Carcasonne sighed.

"Excellent," she said in an even, contented voice that implied she never expected it would turn out any differently.

Erik decided that when he did get a chance to kill that twit, he would do it slowly. Never mind being reformed, never mind promises. Never mind love. All of that was lost to him anyway. He was shunned by the world, sent back to his tomb by daylight that revealed his infamy. They wanted a ghost? They would have a ghost. A murderous ghost that would make that straw-haired chit his first victim.

He gasped as he reclined back against the wooden railing of the catwalk, sinking to his knees. He clutched at his heart as searing pain shot down his arm. Damn! Damn! Damn!

This was not the time to suffer an attack – not when he would need all of his strength to…manage…the construction process.

He grimaced into a future that was blacker than his past. A ghost he was born. A man he could have become. A demon he would die.

_Oh, Christine…_

_

* * *

_

**A/N: AAAAHHH! I can't help myself! But I think this has helped break through my writer's block. And I have such a deeply perfidious idea...several actually...I even astounded myself with my evilness! But you'll have to leave a review to let me know if you want me to continue and reveal my evilness...and it's soooo not what you think!**

**Oh, and I haven't abandoned "The Princess and the Phantom." I just needed to get this out of my head :)**

**Hee hee!**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**


	2. Chapter 2

At first, the workers had shaken their heads and cast searching, sidelong glances at the young woman who moved confidently among the foremen, the laborers and the various specialists and consultants. 

But the truth of the matter was that Mireille Dubienne was as demanding as any foreman, as hard-working as any laborer, and as wily as any consultant. In fact, her small pocket of an office was one of the first areas to be completed and ready for habitation. It only made sense, she pointed out, as she would be spending a large amount of time managing the reconstruction process and needed a central base for her operations.

And in a manner that Napoleon would have approved of, Mireille had proceeded to set the opera house to rights, in terms of building and staff, in a near-record amount of time. Within three months of the purchase by her father and M. Carcasonne, they had hired managing artistic director and were holding auditions on the refurbished main stage.

For the most part, Mireille let her father and M. Carcassonne wax poetic or critical about the performers, and then would quietly have a word with Raymond Le Fevre, the handsome young artistic director, about which performers truly deserved a call back or even a contract.

Four months after the purchase of the Opera Populaire, every staff member, every performer, every musician was ready to be marshaled by Raymond and Mireille into a militaristic schedule of rehearsals for the grand re-opening performance.

"Really, my dear, it _is_ Sunday, after all," old Dubienne had said anxiously when he had come across his daughter already hard at work one morning. "At least in the name of the Lord, take a bit of time off."

"Would you say that to a man, father?"

"No. No, I suppose I wouldn't."

"Well then-"

"But you are still my daughter, and it doesn't change the fact that I love you and worry about you. The circles under your eyes are dreadful!"

Mireille gave him a ghost of a grim smile.

"I will rest after the opening night," she said.

"At least take a bit of time off tomorrow and go order a new dress for opening night."

Mireille gave him a deeply searching look that made the old man feel uncomfortable, as if his words had tickled the ugly underbelly of an emotion she had wished to keep hidden.

"Perhaps," she said evenly. "I will try to do it this week," she added more gently. "But my first concern is making sure that we have all the materials in for the set designer. The barges have been dreadfully slow coming into Paris due to the spring storms in the north."

Dubienne smile wanly and shook his head, his arthritic hands folded genteely over the head of his cane.

"By the by, Mireille," he remarked, turning to leave. "Seen any sign of our ghost fellow yet?"

She let out a light, cynical laugh. "No, indeed! But I plan to hold auditions for him starting the week after next."

Dubienne chuckled. "You are so...deliriously..."

"Devious?"

"Imaginative."

Mireille's lips twitched in a half-smile that was all genuine as her father left her small office.

* * *

Erik had a few other choice words to describe the indomitable Mademoiselle Dubienne: interfering, insensitive, and most of all, inconvenient.

He sat behind the false panel at the back of the large armoir, breathing in the dank air of the small passageway and fuming. Audition for a ghost? Hire a ghost? Oh God, he was no longer even a figment of fear. He was a joke.

Every single day, he had watched the progress of the rebuilding of his opera house and his opera company. He found himself agreeing with Le Fevre, though thinking that the young man did not push the creative limits as much as he would have liked. He even grudgingly found himself accepting the fact that Mireille was a highly competent manager - far more intelligent and shrewd than any of the others who had preceded her in the position...though he had to remind himself that officially, M. Dubienne and M. Carcasonne were the owners and managers. But he, like everyone else at the Opera Populaire, knew who really pulled the strings. And it wasn't him.

Yet.

Day after day, he had observed Mireille, studying her like an animal in a cage. She puzzled him, and not in a good way. Her mind and demeanor were as cold and precise as...his. She had no troubles with the harsher sides of the business, firing people, dealing with construction workers, bankers and divas. She didn't show any of the feminine softness, sweetness or gullibility that had marked almost all the other women he had ever known - Christine included, but Madame Giry excluded. She was tough, fair and intelligent.

However was he going to manage to get her under his thumb?

Erik had decided early on in the process that if his opera house was going to reopen, he would simply have no choice but to take over once again. He knew he wouldn't be able to help himself. Despite bouts of despair and self-loathing, Erik had been busy 'helping' the construction along with his own modifications. He spied on the chorus, on the dancers, on the plasterers and stagehands. He memorized their names, the way they moved, the sounds of their voices. He learned their dirty little secrets.

He would have learned Mireille's dirty little secrets, except the blasted woman didn't seem to have any. Erik pondered for days, pacing back and forth in his lair, spying on Mireille in her office, and searching his memories of Christine for any hints about women that might help him in his quest to conquer the hard-headed manager.

Thinking about Christine was the hardest part, but he found he could stem the bile of self-loathing for short periods of time if he forced himself to look at the situation clinically, like a scientist.

It was only at night, when the opera house was empty, that his howls and sobs would echo off the frescoed walls and wrap around the gilt statues. It was only at night that he abandoned himself to the true irony and despair at this turn in his life. It was only at night that he wished and prayed for death.

Then morning would come, and there would be things to do.

* * *

"I'm afraid that is not good enough, Labouche," Mireille said calmly, despite the fact that her head was aching and her eyes were tired from wearing her glasses all day. "The new gas lines must be inspected by Wednesday in order for us to receive permission to turn on the gas lighting. Next week is simply not an option." 

"But-"

"I expect to hear by lunchtime tomorrow that you have made the necessary arrangements for a Wednesday inspection."

"But-"

"Bribe them if you have to, Labouche."

"What!"

"Come now, monsieur, I expect you to do whatever it takes to get the job done. That will show me that you still want a job."

"Oh."

"Good evening, Labouche."

"Evenin' Mademoiselle Dubienne."

Mireille watched as Labouche left her rapidly darkening office. The one oil lamp on her desk was running low, but the dimness was easier on her eyes, so she didn't turn it up. In fact, she carefully removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes.

The smallest sound of a deliberate breath jerked her from her unguarded moment of fatigue.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, searching the lengthening shadows that swallowed her office in darkness.

"No, not God, mademoiselle. Simply a ghost."

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the rumbling, purring quality struck Mireille forcibly, making her struggle to get back in control of her wits. But once she was thinking clearly again, she was ready for battle.

"So, you are real after all," she drawled sarcastically.

"Hmmm. Quite," the voice replied, matching her tone precisely.

"And why reveal yourself to me tonight, Monsieur le Fantome?"

"I was bored."

Mireille chuckled, narrowing her eyes. "I am sorry," she said innocently. "But you must come back. Auditions for the opera ghost are not until next week."

"Why hire one when you already have one?"

"Why not? I would have to pay the ghost one way or another - for I am sure it won't be long until you're making monetary demands of me. But at least with an outside ghost, I can fire him if he pisses me off."

"Your candor is remarkable."

"A nice way to say fuc-"

"Tut, tut. Such language from a young lady"  
"You've heard me say worse, no doubt."

The silence acceded her point.

Mireille prayed that her wildly beating heart would slow and steady. It was taking every ounce of bravado and wit to keep her cool during this exchange. He had taken her by surprise...well, shocked the hell out of her to be perfectly accurate. But it was all happening too quickly for her to think much. She just had to brazen this through then think over the consequences later...consequences and opportunities...

"What is it that you want, monsieur?"

"Hmmm. An excellent question, mademoiselle. And not one that I have an exact answer for at the moment."

"I didn't think you the type to pay social calls."

"I'm not."

"Then what is this truly? A warning shot across the bow? An opening salvo?"

"Perhaps."

"Don't fight me, Monsieur le Fantome. You will lose."

"Perhaps."

There was a throaty chuckle that seemed to shiver in the air around her. "And then again, perhaps not."

Mireille's head was throbbing, and she fought to maintain her composure. "Well, as pleasant as this little chat has been, I am afraid that I must go now. It has been a long day, and I am tired."

"Yes, you must be. The circles under your eyes are terrible."

Mireille didn't bother replying, suppressing a quick, strange flash of anger. She stood up and put on her spectacles again, turning out the oil lamp in a gesture of defiance that showed she wasn't afraid of the dark or the men that lurked in it.

She picked up her folio of paperwork and leather satchel and crossed the office to the door.

"When you go for your dress-making appointment tomorrow, I would like for you to select something in midnight blue. I think it would suit you quite well."

Mireille opened her mouth in protest, then closed it without making a sound. As much as she wanted to yank the door open and slam it closed, she forced herself to open and close it softly and normally.

In the dark, silent office, a shadow moved and smiled to itself.

"So you are a woman, after all, my dear. Excellent."

* * *

**A/N:** **Another nice long chappie. Oh, the games we play...or rather that I play and make my readers endure...I make myself giggle when I'm out walking just thinking of all the evil twists I want to put into this story. Angst, murder, betrayal, desire, seduction, embezzlement...I've got it all planned out!**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**


	3. Chapter 3

**I. Interlude**

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

The voice seemed so close that Mireille thought she could feel a whisper of breath against her ear. But she refused to turn like some startled filly and search for something she was quite sure wouldn't be there. She wasn't wholly surprised at the voice's finding her during the opening night gala. In fact, she would have been more surprised if he hadn't taken advantage of such a melodramatic occasion to renew their acquaintance.

"Not at all, monsieur," she replied, her lips barely moving as she smoothed down the drab olive green skirts of her three-year-old ball gown. "But the fact that my opera ghost pays such attention to my attire is rather amusing."

"I am not _your_ opera ghost, my dear. You would do well to remember that."

"This is my theater. You haunt it. Ergo, you are my ghost."

"A pleasant conceit, mademoiselle. But with great regret, I am forced to make a small correction. This theater technically does not belong to you. It belongs to your father. And his partner."

Mireille bit her lip as his barb hit home.

She leaned her shoulder against the cool marble of the wall, the potted plant obscuring her from the eyes of the other guests.

"The sopranos in the chorus were flat tonight. The scenery painting had very little depth to it, and the last ballet dancer on the left in the second row back is about two beats off from everyone else."

"Have you anything else to say?"

"Hmmm. No. Other than that, it was a remarkably…remarkable evening."

"Oh good, I am _so_ glad you are pleased." Sarcasm dripped in her voice like honey from a spoon.

The disembodied voice chuckled.

"Charming as this conversation has been, I must return to my guests," she said flatly.

"But of course, mademoiselle. We shall speak again."

"I have no doubt," she sighed as she moved past the potted plant back into the crush of hoop skirts and cravats.

* * *

**II. Prelude**

Erik had returned to the house by the lake feeling rather pleased with himself. His debut with Mademoiselle Dubienne had been highly satisfactory, and he didn't know which tickled him more, the fact that he had obviously frightened her or the way she had tried so hard not to slam the door.

During the quick trip back down into the cellars, he had also become comfortable with his decision to seduce her instead of kill her. The thought of killing a woman was vaguely distasteful to him. Besides, he needed a powerful pawn to checkmate the kings of the theater, and what better piece for the job than the queen herself?

He turned their encounter over and over again in his mind. Occasionally, he questioned his motives for revealing himself to her. It was an irretrievable step in a deadly chess game. He hadn't been able to help it, though, and if he was to regain control of his opera house, he would have reveal his presence at some point.

Besides he had been lonely.

He ground his teeth as his thoughts staggered down this uncomfortable path. It had been easy to be alone in a quiet, tomb-like opera house, with only the whispers of the breeze through broken windows and keening of a solitary ghost for company. But once living, breathing people had filled the place again, he felt the old, familiar yearning for something more, that damnable impulse to be part of humanity.

And she had been alone. And she had been tired. Her guard had been down.

And she had taken off her glasses.

He moved around his home, absently setting things in order. He paused in front of a small music box with a monkey dressed in Persian robes. He gently brushed the figurine with his fingertips, his breath catching in his throat.

Yes.

He would seduce Mademoiselle Dubienne…with his voice, with his music, with a melody that would haunt her night and day and that only she would hear.

His lips almost curved in a smile, but there was a touch of hardness in his eyes. This was no game of love – not like with, oh God, with beautiful, sweet Christine. No, no! God, the pain of love! No, never again. This was a pure game of power, and it was one he was determined to win.

The only pleasure he would allow himself was the thrill of fighting a worthy opponent. Mademoiselle Dubienne was no naïf, but she was a woman yet. And he was a man. Even with a monster's face, he was still a man. If within a month he couldn't have her twisted around his little finger in the ecstatic agony of unfulfilled desire to know and serve the opera ghost in return for his unseen attentions, well, he'd eat his mask.

* * *

**III. Coda**

It was four o'clock in the morning when the Dubienne carriage pulled up to the stately _hotel particulier_ where Mireille and her father lived. With a sleepy smile, she accepted her father's hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

"A splendid evening, my girl," he murmured, dropping an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

"And a splendid headache I'll have in the morning," she mumbled, think of the endless glasses of champagne she had quickly imbibed after her encounter with the ghost. She was quite tipsy and relaxed, feeling nothing more than a pleasant anticipation of slipping between the sheets of her soft, warm bed.

"Sleep in for once, will you, my dear?"

"No doubt I won't be able to help it."

"Good. Now go to bed, _ma petite_."

"_Oui, papa_," Mireille replied, mimicking the way she used to speak as a little girl.

Once inside, her maids swooped down on her, sweeping her up the stairs, stripping her of her out-of-fashion ball gown and wrapping her in a soft white linen shift.

Mireille soon found herself snuggling happily down among the pillows and pulling the covers up to her chin. She was conscious of a vague sensation of the world tipping and spinning, but she figured that would go away once she fell asleep. Her eyes drifted closed, and her breaths deepened as she slid into the grey space between wakefulness and sleep.

A faint melody seemed to come to her, and her groggy mind – too tired to rouse itself to full consciousness – wondered if it was something she had heard at the ball. But it went on and on, carrying her on a gentle sing-song current of a lilting melody.

She dreamed she was making up words to go along with the music.

_Masquerade…_

_Paper faces on parade…_

_Masquerade…_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

That night, she dreamed of a dark prince standing in the window of a burning castle.

That night, Erik dreamed of a honey-haired princess asleep in a tower.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you truly sure you wish to do this?" Raymond Le Fevre asked earnestly.

"Quite sure," came Mireille's calm, uncompromising reply.

Raymond thought about her words, trying to see things from her point of view – the cool, calculating business view. Undoubtedly, what she was suggesting would be good for business, but it felt awkward and almost impolite, dredging up a thing of the past like that.

He sighed and shrugged. "As you like, mademoiselle."

"Trust me, monsieur."

"I would, except that you are so…"

"Cunning?"

"Clever," Raymond finished with a grin, winning an amused chuckle from her. He noticed that her mouth was nice when she smiled, and he filed that away to ponder over later.

Mireille watched Raymond leave her office and shut the door behind him. She bent her head to study the accounting books, though her eyes barely skimmed the columns of figures. It had been a month since opening night. The house had been full for every performance, and revenue was starting to finally cover some of the initial costs of re-opening the opera house.

She smiled to herself as she thought of _why_ the place had kept selling out. Pierre Bupres, a rascally 15 year-old stage hand, had become her accomplice in what he had thought of as a grand gag on the high and mighty of Paris. On Mireille's orders, he would have lights flicker, curtains stir, open vents to cause sudden draughts, and other minor bits of mischief.

Rumor had begun to circulate that the opera ghost was back, and Parisians uncomfortably laughed it off, both hoping and dreading that it was true. If it was true, it was an awful thing, but it was also quite thrilling – and every Parisian worth their salt never turned down a chance to be thrilled.

So, they had continued to buy the tickets and come to the performances.

Mireille absently noticed that the sunlight had faded, and a terrific bank of thunderclouds had darkened the sky, filling the room with a gloom that was like night. She stood up and groped around her desk for a box of matches in order to light the oil lamp on her table.

She gasped and dropped the box as a terrific crash of thunder cracked the silence. Shaking her head, she smiled slightly at her own startled reaction and bent over to retrieve the matchbox from the floor.

She straightened up and turned back to the desk, only to have the matchbox fly out of her hand again as she choked on another gasp and jerked with surprise and shock.

In the gloom, standing before her, was a towering dark figure. A white half-mask glowed eerily in the dimness, and two hard eyes stared her down with a pair of lips pressed into a harsh line.

Instinctively, Mireille grabbed at the desk for support and tried to back away, her mind warring between panic and the need to stay calm and fight back. She swallowed hard, as if to choke back the fear, forcing it hard down into her gullet and willing her mind to stay focused.

She tried to take a step back, needing to put space and air between them, to reset the balance of power. But the dark, cloaked figure moved too quickly and too strongly for her to evade the powerful, painful grasp that encircled her waist and held her head firmly in place.

"Monsieur le Fantome?" Mireille asked coldly, even though her voice shook with the slightest shiver of fear. "To what do I owe this—"

"You have no right!" Erik growled, feeling as if he wanted to slip his hand down from cradling the back of her head to wringing her scrawny neck. "That opera is MINE! It was not meant for—"

"That is too bad, but irrelevant," Mireille countered, narrowing her eyes as she refused to back down from his fiery glare. "_Don Juan Triumphant_ will be our next production, and unless you care to burn the opera house down again, there is nothing you can do to stop it."

Her very coolness inflamed his anger. Why did she not tremble? Why did her eyes not grow wide with fear? Why did she answer him back with the same menace as his own voice held? This was no girl, this was a…a…monster!

_No, Erik, this is a woman_, the little voice in his head whispered. _Not an ingénue. Not an angel. Not anything except a woman. Remember that…and remember how you said you would conquer this woman…_

Mireille gasped involuntarily as the phantom's grip tightened around her and her thin body was pressed against the solid mass of his. Her hands flew to his arms, vainly trying to push at them to give her breathing space. She felt something between a chuckle and a purr rumble in his chest, vibrating against her body. She stiffened with surprise and a host of unwelcome sensations when the phantom's hand slid from behind her head, the leather-encased fingers tracing a feathery line across her cheek and along her jaw line before drifting down to the hollow of her throat.

Erik felt a rush of animal pleasure at the way she struggled against him then went still at his touch. The only complication that kept him from tasting total victory was the traitorous response of his own body. The liquid shivers that ran through his form as he pressed her more tightly to him were like nothing he had ever felt before – not even with…

This was pure desire, base lust, and he was disgusted by it, by the weakness of need his solitude created. Why, Mademoiselle Dubienne wasn't even pretty – she was passable at best, and if he hadn't needed her for his plans, she would have been the last woman to occupy his thoughts. The irony of his pickiness did not escape him, and he let his thoughts wander in this treacherous field for a moment as the rain began to pound against the window and the thunder rumbled dangerously in the background.

"It is you, isn't it?" Mireille whispered, breaking the lengthening silence between them.

"What do you mean," Erik growled, feeling the sound of his voice envelope them in a hot cloud of confused emotions.

"The music I hear at night…in my dreams."

"I cannot help it if you are delusional, mademoiselle."

Mireille studied him, and he studied her back, getting a good, close look at her face, noting the spectacles, the hazel eyes, the exact shape of her lips. Passable, but not pretty. No, not like…

"You think to haunt me, playing music outside my window at night, until I go mad or give in and become your pawn like Andre and Firmin, and Le Fevre before them."

He stared at her, his eyes betraying a flicker of surprise. Oh, this one was more intelligent than he had even guessed. Too intelligent to succumb to his ghostly games.

"I won't weaken, you know. You will not win."

Erik smirked slightly at her as he bent his face close to hers – close enough that their lips almost brushed, close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin and see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a sight that he found disturbingly arousing.

"Oh, my dearest mademoiselle," he breathed, his lips almost touching hers as he spoke. "I have not even begun to fight."

Mireille was frantically trying to get control of her riotous emotions and her treacherous body. The last thing she had expected was that her opera ghost would be…well…_handsome_…and…_quite a man_…

No! Her mind rallied, smacking her addled wits back into place. She wouldn't give in. She wouldn't surrender. She would fight. And he would lose.

Coldly and deliberately, she dug her fingers into the fine black wool that covered the phantom's arms and pushed him away, secretly relieved that he allowed her to detach herself. She stepped back and smoothed her skirts and hair back into place, then turned a steely glare at the man.

He seemed to melt into the shadows right before her eyes, and a flash of lightning illuminated for one moment the sly smile that tugged at his lips before he vanished into the darkness.

Mireille snorted a lifted her chin, determination filling every inch of her being. But her confidence faltered for the merest of moments when his voice filled the room one last time.

"I was not outside your window playing the music, _Mireille_. I was in your room."


	5. Chapter 5

"Must have been the phantom!"

The stagehands laughed rowdily at Pierre Bupres' seemingly goofy demeanor and remark. Mireille Dubienne, however, was anything but amused.

This was the fifth time that something had gone dramatically wrong with the production of Don Juan Triumphant – and it was only the first scene of the first act that they had begun to rehearse. Backdrops crashed down, costumes went missing, instruments were found deftly plucked of their strings. It wasn't just that all of these inconveniences cost time and money that irked Mireille. It was because she knew they were personal, aimed directly at her in retribution for staging _his_ precious opera.

"I want this backdrop completely repaired and reinstalled by the time we start rehearsals tomorrow morning," she said crisply to the stagehands who were rolling it up. They looked up at her in a kind of bemused, submissive obedience, even though it meant they'd be helping the backdrop painters far into the night.

"Mireille," a soft voice and an even softer touch on her arm stopped her in her stalking.

"What is it, Raymond?" she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the shadows.

"What is going on? I mean really going on."

Mireille stopped for a moment and turned to him. For a fraction of a second, he saw a flicker of worry in her eyes, and he felt his heart give a lurch for no good reason. She wasn't beautiful. She wasn't even all that nice. But there was something about her very strength that made him think about sweeping her into his arms every time he looked at her.

"The less you know about it, the better," she replied coldly. "You concentrate on getting this thrice-damned opera rehearsed and produced. I'll take care of our…ghosts."

Raymond gave in to a measure of temptation, and he ran his hands up and down her arms, looking at her as tenderly as he dared.

"Are you in trouble, my dear?"

"We're all fuc-"

Raymond laughed. "I had no idea you knew such vile language."

Mireille gave him the shadow of a grim smile.

He sighed and leaned his face close in to hers, lowering her voice so that only she could hear it.

"Just promise me that if you are really in trouble or in danger, you'll tell me? I'll help you, no matter what."

Mireille seemed to be on the verge of saying something sarcastic, but as she looked at him, something in her own expression changed ever so slightly.

"I will."

Raymond smiled and released her – reluctantly released her. "I'd better go see about this thrice-damned opera of yours," he teased, before nodding to her and walking over to the huddled singers and dancers.

She stared after him, trying to clear her mind from the vague, somewhat-familiar fuzziness that his touches and kind words had inspired. It almost made her think of…no. That was over. In the past. Done.

A fresh wave of irritation surged over her, and she welcomed it with relief, as it excused her from thinking too much about…that. No, now she knew exactly what she was going to do.

Slipping away from the main auditorium and back into the deserted corridors on the lower levels, she surreptitiously let herself into one of the doors that led down to the cellars.

She gathered her drab brown skirts around her so the hem wouldn't get damp or dirty as she made her way down the slick stone steps. She didn't know exactly where she was going, as the architectural plans for the lower cellars were maddeningly missing. But she felt fairly confident – a confidence born of intense irritation – that she would find her way.

She stood at the top of a long, menacing, curving staircase and shuddered slightly, feeling an unaccountable stab of trepidation. Then she thought of her accounting ledgers and how much each "accident" was costing, and firmly stepped forward.

She was only halfway down the sweeping staircase when suddenly, the world gave way. In a series of chaotic impressions, she felt the stair give way underneath her and a sense of falling, followed by the nasty shock of dropping into icy water that froze the breath in her lungs.

Panic seized Mireille, as she didn't know how to swim, and her dress was quickly becoming heavy and waterlogged. Wildly, she tried to flail her arms to stay afloat and make her way to anything that would hold her up, but it was pitch black, and she couldn't see anything.

The icy water was numbing her mind as quickly as it was numbing her body, and her mouth opened to gasp for air one last time as the weight of her dress and her inability to swim finally pulled her under.

Drowning was the strangest sensation. She held her breath as long as she could, but finally, she had to release it in despair. In a moment of oddly calm clarity, she realized her next breath would fill her lungs with water. She was growing tired and dizzy, and even the fear of dying seemed oddly distant.

Unable to resist the pounding of her heart and the burning in her lungs, she took in the water, choking and flailing in an instinctual panic. Suddenly, the stillness of the icy water that held her gave way to a great wooshing, pulling, swelling movement that dragged her through some kind of tunnel.

Only vaguely was she aware of being dumped by the flow of water into a still lagoon, and she was nearly unconscious when something pulled her out of the water. It was so much more comfortable to be still and to just give into the darkness that seemed so peaceful.

A series of sharp blows to her back jerked her forward, and she found herself retching and spluttering out the water that had filled her lungs. Air hurt, gasping hurt, and she was suddenly aware of just how damned cold she was…and how hard the stone beneath her hands and knees was…and how she was staring at a pair of polished men's boots, brushed by the hem of a great black cloak.

"Idiot!" The word was hissed and bounced in echoes off the walls of the cavern that started to slowly come into focus.

Mireille felt a strong pair of hands seize her shoulders and yank her to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily, but the hands continued to hold her up as she struggled to focus on her reluctant rescuer.

Finally, his face became clear to her, with its mask and its piercing, angry eyes. She was too cold to be angry yet, shivering uncontrollably, her body overriding her mind and demanding dryness and warmth. She was cold, too cold, so cold…she was so tired…the edges of her vision were growing dark…she was so cold…

Then the blackness came and she knew no more.

She awakened slowly, enjoying the sensation of warmth. Everything was warm and silky soft around her. She wiggled comfortably, slowly realizing she was in a bed.

Bed?

Bed…water…cavern…idiot…

_Merde_!

Mireille sat bolt upright, her mind reeling as she tried to take everything in. She was in a bed shaped like a swan, surrounded by warm red silk sheets. To her right, her clothing was hanging up and drying…every bit of her clothing, she realized to her horror. She looked down and saw she was wearing a plain white man's shirt, with absolutely nothing underneath it.

She let out a string of obscenities.

* * *

The stream of oaths from the bedroom alerted him to the fact that Mireille was awake. He almost smiled grimly at the unpleasantness of the realizations she must have been having.

After she fainted, he had been torn between tossing her back in the water and taking care of her. He was about to throw her in to be done with her meddling when a gloriously devious plan occurred to him. Christine would not have approved…but then, Christine wasn't there, was she? She had left him. Alone. Friendless in the world. If that was not a reason to resort to trickery for survival, then he didn't know what would be.

Dragging her back to his lair, he had realized that she would freeze to death if she stayed in those wet clothes. Initially, he had curled his lips in distaste at the thought of having to undress her, but little flashes of their midnight encounter, when he had stood so close to her that he could hear her breath, came back to him. Then, the memories of watching her sleep in her room, looking soft yet troubled, drowning in a sea of white blankets, came back to him.

He tried to convince himself that if his fingers shook at all while he was unlacing her dress and unhooking the stays, it was because she was so cold.

But he also found she was so much smaller than he had always thought her to be. Stripped of her somber armor of high necks, corsets and hoop skirts, she seemed tiny. She still wasn't pretty. Her face was angular, and her skin lacked the porcelain clarity of Christine's. But there was something amazing about the lightness of her limbs and the fragility of her body when revealed.

He had experience no compunctions about looking at her as he removed every last bit of clothing and rubbed her dry with a towel. He had never fully seen a naked woman before, as he had taken pride in being both a monster and a gentleman, unlike the stagehands who tried to peek into the dressing rooms of the chorus girls.

He found himself fascinated by her body despite himself. It wasn't round or lush, or too thin. It was just…average. Yet, he fought off the stirrings of his body at the sight of his enemy, bare and vulnerable, and strangely, awfully beautiful in that moment.

After Christine had left, he had burned all the clothing that he had accumulated for her, and so the only thing he had to dress meddling Mireille in was one of his own shirts. Seeing her tucked into the bed and sleeping soundly, her damp, honey-colored hair strewn about the pillow, he went back to his desk and tried to focus on putting together the details of his plan.

"Monsieur le Fantome! Where are you, you miserable wretch?"

He couldn't hold back a small grin as Mireille, now awake, continued to hurl abuse at him from her bed – being trapped there because she had no robe to cover her naked legs should she stand up.

Without the slightest worry or hurry, he picked up the long, black silk robe by his side and sauntered into the bedroom where Mireille sat, blushing furiously in the middle of the bed. He leaned casually against the stone wall and cocked his visible eyebrow at her, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Give me that robe!" she spat.

"In a moment."

"If you are waiting for me to thank you for saving my life, it'll be a while. After all, if you hadn't booby-trapped my theater, I wouldn't have nearly drowned."

"It's _my_ theater."

"No, it isn't!"

"We've had this conversation before."

"Give me the robe."

"No."

He watched Mireille frown and clench her hands into fists, secretly enjoying her discomfiture.

"Why did you come here?" he asked softly.

"To get you to stop messing around with the production of –"

"Of _my_ opera."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"You're a clever woman. Figure it out for yourself."

He was growing irritated with her, just as he always did when he found himself in verbal sparring matches with her. He didn't like talking as a rule, and with her, it was guaranteed to bring out the worst in him.

Mireille sighed. "The opera is going to be performed whether you like it or not. So what is it that you want from me in order to leave the production in peace?"

He chuckled. "Clever girl."

"Piss off and tell me what you want."

He moistened his lips slightly and held up the robe for her. "First," he said huskily, training his voice to a thick purr, "come here and put on this robe."

"No."

"No?"

"No. Give me the robe."

He smiled, narrowing his eyes and turned to leave the bedroom.

"Wait. Damn you!"

He turned back, and allowed his half-lidded eyes to roam lazily over her body, knowing she would see it, as she stood up and crossed the room to where he was standing with the robe. The shirt barely covered her hips and fell open over her chest to reveal tantalizing outlines of her bosom. He found himself reluctantly admiring her slender legs and little bare feet. Her deathly glare amused him and told him that his tactic of trying to seduce her was absolutely the right way to go about this business.

Gracefully, he helped her slide on the robe, but instead of allowing her to tie it herself in the front, he pulled her to him so that her back was pressed against him and his arms were wrapped around her waist, tying the belt for her. Calculating for the best effect, he let his lips brush her ear and his breath tickle her neck. He was rewarded with the sensation of a suppressed shiver running through her body against him.

Oh, damn!

His own damned body liked that. Struggling for control over himself and Mireille, who was standing strangely still and silent, he splayed his hands over her belly, allowing them to roam over her waist and hips and pulling her more tightly against him.

"So," Mireille said in a voice that sounded harsh from her effort to control it, "what is it you want?"

He stood silent for a moment, aghast that the first word out of his mouth had very nearly been "You." Reining in his suddenly raging lust, he pressed his lips to the shell of her ear and whispered, "You need an untroubled production, and I need a business agent I can trust."

"Ha! You can't trust me."

He chuckled at the half-crack in her voice as his lips brushing her ear had its due effect on her.

"Oh yes," he purred. "Yes, I can, Mireille Dubienne. Because if I can't trust you, you'll be very…very…sorry."

"Are you-are you threatening me?" she squeaked, sounding more like she was trembling from desire than fear, just the sound of her voice firing his veins with an uncomfortable warmth.

"Yes."

"Go fuck yourself."

He let the tip of his tongue trace the contours of her ear as he nibbled it and felt her swallow hard. "I can think of something else I would much rather…" he started to whisper.

"Don't you even--!"

"Why not, Mireille?"

"I'm not going to—"

"To be my business agent?" he chuckled, deliberately letting his hands roam as they liked over her abdomen.

"Piss off!"

He heaved a melodramatic sigh and released her quite suddenly, watching as she seemed to shrink and shiver when deprived of the warmth of his body against hers. She wheeled around to face him, eyes blazing with fury.

For a moment, he felt his own breath desert him at the sight of her, and his own traitorous body urged him to take her back in his arms and finish the job.

"Perhaps," he said, resorting to coldness to douse the burning he felt, "a stay in the _lair of the phantom_ will change your mind."

"You're so full of shit! I will find my way out of here."

"No…you won't."

A pang of doubt crossed her features before their customary hardness returned.

"Yes…I will," she bit out, lifting her jaw defiantly.

He smiled enigmatically at her and bowed mockingly. She seemed about to say something else – no doubt something else unpleasant and mocking – when he moved. It was quickly done, snatching her back into his arms and applying a pinch to the right pressure point so that she sank unconscious again in his embrace.

He carried her over to the bed and gently placed her in it. He went to a small cabinet and withdrew a length of rope and came back to stand over her.

"No…you won't, Mireille," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

Mireille awoke feeling oddly sensual. The powderly linen of a shirt whispered against her skin, and her limbs slid around underneath satin sheets. Unconsciously, she stretched languorously, enjoying the feeling of her skin growing taut over her bones. She wiggled her toes experimentally as she decided whether or not to wake up - a habit from childhood.

Suddenly, small bits of information began to assemble like a well-trained regiment in her increasing awareness.

Point #1: She did not have satin sheets at home.

Point #2: She never woke up feeling…well…aroused because of…well…see Point #1.

Point #3: The pleasant smell she had been inhaling deeply wasn't her own modest perfume.

Point #4: That pleasant smell belonged to the shirt she was wearing.

Point #5: That shirt was not hers.

Point #6: _Merde!_

Mireille sat bolt upright in the bed, remembering everything in a horrid rush of lucidity. She looked desperately over at the chair next to the bed. No robe.

Suddenly, she became aware of a curious weight on her legs. Turning her eyes slowly and in dread, she found herself gazing upon a rope, tied in the form of a noose and coiled like a lasso.

"_Nom d'un nom_!" she swore breathlessly, swallowing her heart repeatedly, as its frantic pounding kept making it jump into her throat.

The rope was a warning. She remembered "the phantom's" words of warning earlier. _Mon Dieu_! How long had she been here? Was she going to make it out alive? Should she take the rope? How was she to find her way back?

It was only later that she realized the one thought she hadn't had was that of assembling a team of roughnecks to eradicate the "ghosts" of the opera house. It was as if she had unconsciously taken for granted that he had the right to live here, and that they were going to have to battle it out as equals for possession of the field.

Mireille listened closely, straining to hear the sounds of movement in the lair. She heard nothing, but reminded herself that was no reason to let her guard down. Cautiously, and as quietly as she could, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and gathered up the lasso and noose in her hands.

She peered stealthily out from the alcove to see if _he_ was moving about. She didn't see him. Somehow, that made her more nervous. But thought Mireille Dubienne might be nervous, she was certainly no coward. A coward would never have survived what she had endured. A coward would never have turned the ultimate failure into a success of sorts…transforming a ruined existence into a semblance of a life.

She stepped out of the alcove.

Only to find herself choking and yanked to her knees by a noose firmly around her neck.

Blearily, she caught sight of a tall, dark figure holding the end of a lasso, identical to the one that now lay useless on the floor beside her.

**O0O0O0O0O00O00O0O00O0O00O000O0000**

He had watched her steel herself as she prepared to make an escape attempt. The only thing that marred his pleasure was the distracting shapliness of her legs…legs that appeared from beneath the brief hem of _his_ shirt.

Certainly, he had seen the dancers' bodies. He had seen more than he had ever wanted to see of those muscular ballerinas. The only other body that had somehow roused such confusing, confounding and coital feelings in him was…no! This was no time to think of that.

Still, he forced himself to admit that Mireille had an intriguing little body, for all that she was plain of face. Shaking his head silently, he tried to focus on watching her moves and picking his time to strike.

Strike he did, easily capturing the woman and bringing her to her knees with a sickening thud that he knew meant her knees had met the stone.

"I trust you slept well?" he purred, coiling up the lasso as he approached her kneeling, choking figure. He almost choked at her glare, but held his amusement in check, remembering the part he was to play.

"Some children are given dolls to ward off the monsters that live beneath their beds," his whispered, pulling her to her feet roughly by the noose and holding it up so she was forced to stand on her tiptoes in order not to suffocate. "I thought I would leave you a token that would remind you of the true monster that lives beneath your opera house…_and that you will never be free of, so long as you are within this building!_"

"Gah tah hach!"

"Such language. I've noticed before that you have a most un-ladylike vocabulary."

"Pih hoff!"

He yanked the noose a bit tighter and snaked an arm around her waist to steady her, not wanting her die by accident. This was a lesson, not a punishment.

"There are so many things I need that you could provide me…_Mireille_," he murmured, training his voice to its rumbliest, most seductive pitch.

He picked her up by the waist, not releasing the hold on the noose, and brought her back to rest against the stone wall, his body pressing relentlessly against hers. Damn! She was soft. Even her bones felt buttery soft. His body screamed to rip the shirt from her and take what he had been so long denied. She was naked under the shirt. His hands had but to stray a few inches and he would touch velvety flesh. Reason still held sway, but the thread was thin and tenuous.

"I need a business agent," he said thickly, lowering his head so that his lips almost brushed her parted, gasping mouth. "I have ideas for the operas that should be obeyed – how else do you think the Populaire knew such success before?"

He sensed her body growing weak and more pliant in his arms. Surreptitiously, he loosened the noose and heard her take great choking gasps of air. Timing his words for her breathing, he slid the hand that had been holding the noose down along the side of her body.

"I need a sweet little body in my bed," he continued huskily as his fingertips brushed her bare thigh. His hips found themselves naturally cradled by her hips, and the harder he pressed himself against her, the harder he became. His mind grew wild for a moment with images of hands on flesh, soft breasts against his chest, breathy sighs, and arms and legs tangled and glowing with the faint sheen of passion's sweat.

"No."

Mireille's blunt answer, rasped out, was like a bucket of cold water to his senses. Of course it was no. He had meant for it to be no. That had been his plan. He didn't want such a plain thing in his bed, anyway. He just needed a competent business agent. He was only trying to manipulate her.

He pretended to chuckle and forced himself to lower his lips to her neck, careful not to touch her skin, but simply letting his breath caress her skin. It was a technique, nothing more.

"You're not in much of a position to bargain, _mademoiselle_," he growled, hoping he didn't sound too bitter or frustrated. He needed to be intimidating, not pathetic. Damn!

"You wouldn't dare force me," Mireille replied, lifting her chin defiantly, a knowing, hard gleam in her eyes. "You're just trying to manipulate me by making it seem the lesser of two evils to be your agent."

The lesser of two evils? Oh yes, how little she knew about evil. He could show her evil, horror and demons that would strip her of her sanity. But he found himself burning to show her a different kind of evil, one that would have her wailing in his arms, writhing against his body, her slender legs wrapped around his nude waist as he –

"If I agree to be your agent, do I have your word that you will not disrupt any of our productions?" she said crisply, breaking into his unwelcome, desire-drenched reverie.

"Yes."

"May I have it in writing?"

"The opera ghost does not sign contracts."

"The opera ghost does not have bank accounts, either."

"You have my word."

"That is not good enough."

"You take your life in your hands with such words, foolish woman!"

He was totally unprepared for the stinging slap across his face. Astounded, he actually let go of Mireille, who stood in all her petite stature, quivering with rage.

"You will NEVER call me a foolish woman again!" she hissed, taking a menacing step towards him, at least it would have been menacing if she hadn't been wearing only his shirt and nothing else. "How dare you? You know nothing of me! Nothing! If I were foolish, I wouldn't be here now. If I were just a woman, I'd be…"

Suddenly, she stopped and bit her lip, simply glaring at him. He couldn't help but stare back, fascinated. It would only be later that he realized that for all her ranting at him, she had never once referred to him as a monster, a criminal, a demon, a corpse, a bastard…despite the obvious truth of it all. No, he was forced to agree later in a brandy-soaked moment of reasoning, she was not just a woman. She was a good woman.

"Are we agreed or not?" he said icily, not wanting to pursue the confrontation to places he knew she didn't want to go, and he wasn't sure he was ready to go.

She hesitated a long moment, her eyes coldly measuring him up. Then, to his utter, infinite surprise, she extended her hand for a man's handshake. Allowing himself a faintly sardonic smile, he shook her hand, silently sealing their unorthodox bargain.

"Your clothes are dry now," he said, adopting a formal, normal demeanour, as if she wasn't standing in the fifth cellar of an opera house with a masked man, wearing only a shirt and a noose around her neck. "They are hanging in the wardrobe in your room. Go and dress, and I will guide you back to the surface."

She looked at him a long moment, an unfathomable expression in her eyes, then deliberately removed the noose from around her neck, dropped it on the ground in disdain, and turned and went back into the bedroom alcove. He turned to walk away, but found himself loathe to give up the game just yet.

"You know, things might have gone a lot better before if Andre or Firmin had had legs like yours, my dear," he called out as he descended the stairs back to his organ.

He could hardly suppress a laugh as he swore he heard a china pitcher and washbowl being smashed.

**O0O0O0O0O00O00O0O00O0O00O000O0000**

Mireille studied her reflection in the mirror as she fastened the last buttons on her dress.

She sighed.

She was just a woman, after all. A weak woman. A hungry woman.

She sighed again and put on her own mask of hard, unfeminine competency.

Next time he tried to sway her with seduction, she vowed, she'd fight fire with fire. Her expression brightened slightly as she thought happily of letting him know of the "commission surcharge" she would deduct from any money he entrusted her with. Oh, he'd be so angry.

Angry enough to be vulnerable.

Vulnerable to be negotiated with.

Negotiated with for what, though?

She hurried out of the alcove, not wanting to answer that question.


	7. Chapter 7

"Mireille!"

Raymond Le Fevre's frantic call arrested Mireille in her wobbly footsteps as she stumbled back to her office. She turned around to face him, but the spin made her slightly dizzy. In a flash, Raymond was at Mireille's side, relishing the opportunity to grasp her around her waist and hold her gently to him.

"Are you all right?" he asked breathlessly. "God, I was so worried about you!"

Mireille clung lightly to him, trying to figure out why her head was doing odd things like pulsing back and forth and causing the world to sway in odd ways.

"How long have I been…" she started to say, then stopped.

"Nine hours. God, nine hours and no one could find you. You look so pale. What happened?"

"Um…nothing."

"NOTHING?"

"I…went looking for something, and I must have…um…fainted."

"Do you have a fever? When did you eat last?"

Mireille gave a small, awkward laugh, not really realizing that she should try to extricate herself from his embrace. "Are you my artistic director or my mother?"

"I…care about what happens to you, Mireille."

It struck her suddenly that he was using her name. He had only ever called her "Mademoiselle Dubienne." It was nice to hear him say her name. It sounded sweet. Yet, she braced herself and gently stepped out of the circle of his arms.

"That is kind of you, R-raymond," she replied, stumbling over his name. "I think I have just forgotten to eat."

Raymond studied her, his heart thudding thunderously in his chest. He couldn't understand it himself, but he found himself endlessly fascinated and intensely attracted to this cold, ordinary-looking woman. Perhaps it was the fact she was so hard, yet her body was small and soft. Perhaps it was the odd moment now and then when he caught her looking sad and tired when she thought no one was watching her. Perhaps it was because she was unlike any other woman he had ever known – smart, steely, wily, tough, and…utterly desirable because of it.

She wasn't good-looking, but her eyes…those greenish hazel eyes…her eyes…

"Where are your glasses?" he asked softly, allowing himself to lift his hand and gently touch her face by her temple. God, her skin was so soft. He was startled to see a look of utter panic flit across her small, regular features, only to disappear behind a façade of cool competence.

"I must have lost them when I fainted," she replied briskly. "I…I don't really need them, anyway."

She gave him an awkward half-smile and turned to walk away, eager to escape his touch. Not because it was unpleasant, but because it was so…gentle. Unfortunately, her legs didn't want to cooperate, and her knees turned into jelly as a hot flash surged through her body.

"You are not well," Raymond asserted, seizing the opportunity of sweeping her up into his arms. "I'm going to take care of you."

"I don't need—"

"I think you do."

"No, I do—"

"Don't argue with me, Mireille," he said with a smile as he carried her towards the dressing rooms. "I can't have our manager falling ill or fainting when we have a thrice-damned production to get on with."

He pushed open one of the dressing rooms and walked inside. He laid her down on the divan, and knelt beside her, brushing a few errant strands of hair off her forehead. He noticed that she closed her eyes at his touch, almost as if she was in pain, but the sadness in the lines around her mouth told him that it was a pain of a more intimate and less physical kind.

"Why don't you need your glasses?" he asked softly, continuing to pet and stroke her face and shoulders, trying to encourage her to relax, to open to him.

Her eyes flew open, but she quickly looked away.

"Men take a woman more seriously if she wears glasses," she replied quietly.

"There isn't a soul here in this opera house that doesn't respect you for your abilities, regardless of your gender…or your glasses," Raymond said warmly.

Mireille opened her mouth to protest that indeed, there was one lost soul in this opera house that most certainly did not respect her. But she shut her mouth again and tried to smile.

"You needn't be so nice to me, Raymond."

"I want to be. I…I want to be your friend, Mireille…your dearest friend."

"Don't!"

Raymond pulled back, startled. "I..I'm sorry…I didn't…"

Mireille sat up and tried to compose herself. With shaking hands, she took hold of his and looked him straight in the eye.

"No, do not be sorry," she said gently, her expression gentle but serious. "I tell you that you cannot be more than my colleague because, well, it's for your own good. I cannot be with anyone, and I cannot have friends. There are very good reasons for this. You must trust me. I…I am not a whole person. Leave it at that."

She attempted to smile to ease the stricken expression on his countenance. "I say this because you are a wonderful man, and you deserve someone as wonderful as you. Not a used-up spinster with a head for business."

Raymond struggled with his emotions: frustration, fear, and a gnawing, aching desire to rip away the hard shell of the spinster and release the woman he suspected lurked inside her frail body. He squeezed her hands and tried to speak, but no sound came.

Instead, he suddenly leaned forward and captured her lips in a lingering, chaste kiss.

"I know what I deserve," he whispered, then kissed her again. "And I will give you all the time you need, if only you will give me a chance."

Mireille sat still as a statue with shock. Raymond smiled and cupped her face in his hands. "My dearest friend," he whispered, then kissed her again.

He rose to his feet and gently pushed her back down against the divan.

"Rest for a bit. I am going to go get you a bit of food, and some wine to fortify you. You've been through too much, Mireille, and I won't have you wasting away on me."

Once he left, Mireille raised a tentative hand to her lips and swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes. It was all too much, too much in the space of 24 hours. Too much…too mu…

She fell into a troubled doze.

An hour later, Raymond escorted her back to her office, having been satisfied that she had eaten the plate of smoked ham, cheese, bread and apple he brought her, and had at least one glass of the strong red wine that returned a bit of color to her sallow cheeks.

Raymond left a soft little kiss on her forehead and let her back into her office, then headed back to the rehearsals. Safely inside her modest office, Mireille leaned her back against the door and tried to pull herself together.

The sight of her glasses, cleaned and neatly folded, left on the middle of her business desk did nothing to help with regaining her cold, hard composure. Shakily, she crossed the room to pick them up and put them on.

"_Mireille_," the disembodied voice seemed to shiver in the air around her, choking her with its icy rage.

"_You are mine_!"

"I am no one's!" she spat into the emptiness.

"_You belong to me now_."

"No, I don't!"

"_Yes…you do_."

Unable to stand any more, Mireille turned and fled her office, not stopping until she had reached the safety of her home. She locked herself in her bedroom and through herself onto her bed.

And for the first time in four years, Mireille Dubienne cried.


	8. Chapter 8

"This dance number is not quite right."

Mireille said nothing, not even intimating by a silent sigh that she had an opinion one way or another. She didn't even glance at Raymond. She didn't have to. She knew exactly what he was thinking at Charles Carcasonne's fatuous critiques.

"And what is wrong with it in your view, M. Carcasonne?" Raymond asked politely. Mireille found herself grudgingly admiring his endless politeness and patience. By that point, after six hours of rehearsals and critiques, she would have had little compunction in calling Carcasonne various names of varying degrees of villainy.

"It needs to be more…sensual," Carcasonne replied, absently flicking a speck of imaginary dust off of the pristine top hat in his lap.

Mireille nearly gagged at the way he said that word, all sorts of malevolent and revolting images of Carcasonne being "sensual" rolling about in her imagination. Still, she neither moved nor showed any sign of caring. She simply sat by herself in the row across from Raymond and Carcasonne, watching one of the first full rehearsals of the most anticipated opera of the season.

"Then again, we must thing of the young ladies in the audience," Carcasonne continued. "I wouldn't want to be accused of corrupting their innocence through an opera such as this."

She felt his words sliding in her direction, and at first, she looked up at him to coolly reassure him that this opera was hardly likely to inspire unbridled debauchery in the foyer. In the cloakroom, perhaps, but—

She stopped before she could even summon a sound from her voice. The look on Carcasonne's face was so vile and deliberately obvious that she actually felt herself blush. Hurriedly, she looked away.

* * *

"_He was right, you know."_

Mireille was wending her way down the treacherous stairs and passages that would lead to the phantom's lair, the bank statement and requisite cash neatly folded up in an envelope in the pocket of her dress. These weekly visits had become routine, though the spookiness of entering the cellars never quite faded.

She rolled her eyes at the eerie, disembodied voice that floated around her.

"_There is no sensuality in that dance number. The dancers must make love to each other on the stage."_

She maintained her calm expression, determined not to let him see her perturbed in any way shape or form. She had exposed enough of her emotions to him, and now, she was done with that.

She saw him waiting at the edge of the underground canals, his black gondola tethered to the side, and the only light around them spilling forth from her lantern. He stood perfectly still, his heavy black cloak hanging about his shoulders, and his mask glowing preternaturally.

"You should address your complaints to the dance instructress, then," Mireille said calmly, as if they had been chatting politely over _un café_.

She had to hide her inner smile as she saw his eyes flash for a moment. He'd never reveal himself to the dance mistress, never risk it. It was Mireille's pointy little reminder that as of that moment, she was his sole link to the world above.

He continued to stand still and glare at her.

"My, my. So gloomy. You look like a raven whose dinner just got away," Mireille taunted, keeping her voice blandly pleasant as she fished in her pocket for the documents to hand him. She pulled them out and offered them in her outstretched hand.

She felt a muscle in her face twitch impatiently when he didn't reach out to take it, but simply continued to glare at her. She raised an eyebrow in challenge and simply dropped the packet from her hand, letting it fall to the ground. Then, she spun on her heel and started to walk back towards the corridor she had come from.

What happened next was little more than a blur of movement and sensation. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, he had grabbed her and pushed her up against the smooth stones of the walls that lined the canals. His leather clad hands gripped her face and held her waist, and the full weight of his body pinioned her against the wall.

"You leave," he hissed, "when I say you can leave."

"What are you going to do?" Mireille challenged, fighting to ignore her body's response to every searing inch of his mass against her curves. "Beat me? Force me?"

She watched with a sinking feeling as he wet his lips slightly.

"Well?"

* * *

"I am going to seduce you."

He felt a strange, unfamiliar surge of pride and power rush through him as he said those words aloud. He had thought them so many times, whispered them so many times in the past few weeks, that he could almost trick his mind into remembering that he had transformed thought to speech. But the moment he declared his intentions, he knew he hadn't. Nothing prepared him for the erotic thrill of watching the color drain from Mireille's face or seeing her eyes dilate and grow wide.

"You wouldn't dare," she whispered, seeming to force herself to narrow her eyes and stiffen her body.

"I never dare. I simply _do_."

"Well, you shan't this time."

"You have very little say in the matter."

"Oh no? I beg to differ. If I say nothing, then you will have forced me. If I say nothing-"

"Words," he whispered, bringing his lips close to hers, "are not always necessary."

And then he kissed her.

And she kissed him back.

Then she suddenly tried to shove him away, as if her kiss had merely been a diversionary tactic to set the stage for her escape.

Her struggle merely inflamed him more. Roughly, he continued to hold her pinned against the wall, but now, he hitched her up so that her hips rested on his knee and her bosom was almost level with his mouth.

He kissed her with all his rage, his anger, his need. He left a trail of bites and tastes along her jaw and then down the side of her neck, and was rewarded with the sound of her breath catching in her throat and a moan that she tried to strangle into silence.

Oh, for how many weeks since he had first kept her in his lair, half-naked and spitting-mad, had he dreamt these unholy dreams about her? The plain spinster releasing the lustful hellion he knew existed in her soul. His body ached with his need, and he crushed himself against her.

Roughly, he ripped open her bodice, barely registering that her own hands were no longer pushing but now pulling at him. His fingers yanked down the top of her chemisette, exposing a perfect breast to him, and he clamped his lips around it, suckling, biting, teething, licking and nuzzling. He felt her squirming against him, her moans no longer miscarried in her throat. No, now, he felt her hands snaking through his hair, pulling him harder to her breasts. He felt the roll of her hips and responded with his own.

This was it.

He would take her here on the cold, cold stone, making her a woman and himself a man by the force of his own passion.

"Well?"

* * *

"Well? What's it to be? Hot oil or the rack?" Mireille snapped, tired of waiting for her phantom fellow to answer her with the expected threat. After pinning her against the wall, all he had done was stare at her. He hadn't moved an inch. She had been a little disconcerted at the glazing over of his eyes as he had gazed down at her, and she felt his rather obvious arousal grind into her hips.

He blinked twice, as if coming to, and Mireille felt a vague stab of anxiety as he looked down at her with the kind of undisguised lust that Carcasonne had revealed earlier. Only this time, the lust in his eyes was…well, not welcome, no, certainly not…but neither was it entirely unpleasant.

She took a quick breath in, and for an instant, almost believed that he would kiss her.

Good Lord, maybe he was right after all, and she really _was_ delusional.

"Sh-shall you gape all night like a dead carp?" she said, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Shall your harp all night like a fishwife?" he replied instantly.

Mireille surprised herself with the laugh that bubbled up inside her and spilled out in highly inelegant giggles and snorts. The phantom stepped back quickly, releasing her as if she was a burning coal. Through the tears of her mirth, she thought she saw a look of genuine astonishment on his face.

"_Bon soir_," she said gently as her laughter subsided and a faint smile lingered like the last moments of sunset before twilight. "I will be going now."

She saw him looking at her, his eyes almost glowing with some unreadable emotion.

"I still have not said you can leave." His voice was as cold as the water in the canals, cold as stone, and hot as fire.

"Do you want me to stay?"

She watched him as for a moment, he seemed to hesitate as if to say "yes." It occurred to her that if he had asked, she might very well have said yes herself. The thought disturbed her as much as it seemed to disturb him.

Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away.

"Good night," she whispered, then turned and fled the phantom's world.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in a new chapter. September and October have been rather challenging months for many different reasons. But, I am back...as are Mireille and Erik...**

**Resume chaos and depravity.**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**

**P.S. I have amended the chapter slightly – I just wanted to make it clear that the…ahem…interlude was _all_ in Erik's twisted little head…_On se comprend? Bon. Alors. A bientot!_ **


	9. Chapter 9

"Like hell!"

Raymond looked up from the draft of the program he was studying to find Mireille throwing down an official-looking letter and pacing around her small office like a caged, enraged cat.

"Mireille? What is the matter?"

"A 'cease and desist' letter is the matter," she practically spat, glaring at the letter.

"From lawyers?"

"No, from God," she snapped back, then stopped and looked a little ashamed. "I'm sorry, Raymond. Do not mind me or my nasty temper. This production has me on edge."

"So I've noticed," he replied quietly, getting up and coming around to put his hands on her shoulders, and trying not to feel hurt when she seemed to flinch slightly at his touch. "You did promise me to tell me if you were in trouble, and as your friend, I want to help you."

Mireille bit her lip and gave him an inscrutable look. "Just produce the best damned opera you can," she said finally. "Let me deal with God and lawyers. You have divas to worry about."

Raymond laughed. Gingerly, he let his hands drift down from her shoulders to encircle her waist, praying she wouldn't pull away. He had wanted her for so long, wanted to hold her close, to feel her heartbeat next to his.

She didn't pull away, nor did she stiffen. For the first time, she felt soft and pliant under his touch. He tried to meet her eyes, but she looked away. Yet, he felt as though he didn't need to see her eyes to know what lurked there – exhaustion, sadness, an unspoken need for love and comfort. Gently, he enfolded her fully in his embrace, relishing as her head fell against his shoulder.

Tenderly, he kissed the top of her head.

"Mireille, la belle Mireille, my dearest Mireille," he whispered soothingly and was rewarded with the feeling of her melting into his arms, her small hands tentatively coming up to cling to his lapels. "My Mireille, my heart," he murmured, burying his face in her honey-colored hair.

He was so close to his goal, so close to having her turn to him for his love, for his heart which would welcome her and keep her safe and close for the rest of their days. With each day that had passed, his patience has been rewarded by increasing measures of her trust. Instinctively, he knew that her mysterious excuses and secret sadness would soon spill out in whispered words, and then he could exorcise her past, her hurt, and free her to live and love again – with him.

"Raymond, I…"

He stayed silent, his heart pounding, ready for her.

The sound of wood splintering and crashing all around them shattered the moment. He tried to hold onto Mireille, but she jumped out of his embrace as if his arms were made of fire.

"Go!" she ordered brusquely, unceremoniously pushing him towards the door as the cracking, shuddering sounds of destruction grew in intensity.

"What? Why? Mireille, what the hell is going on?"

"Get out of here!" she nearly screamed against the deafening noise. "Go! Say nothing to anyone!"

In his confusion and surprise, he found himself outside the door of her office, with the bolt clicking from the inside. As surely as he knew his name, he knew she was in trouble, and no bolt or door was going to stop him from getting to her.

He wasn't sure what cracked first – the door or his shoulder, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to her, and the wood quickly splintered and gave way to his assault. He stumbled into her office.

She was gone.

Gone, vanished, as if taken by a ghost…

The pieces fell into place like a ghastly puzzle. Pierre Bupres be damned! The "opera ghost" was still here. Mireille knew – had known all along, damn her stubborn secretiveness – and, that damned ghost-man had preyed on her!

Raymond strode out of her office, wrapped in fell meditation. He would get Mireille back and save both her and the Populaire from that madman.

And that was a promise.

* * *

Mireille had expected a confrontation in her office. She hadn't expected to be yanked into the wall and pinned against rough wooden boards in a secret corridor.

"Not one sound."

He had brought his leather-clad fingers to her lips, his eyes promising a threat if she disobeyed. She scanned his half-face for any indication of his purpose, his mood, his menace. An edge of real fear sliced through her for the first time as she met his green gaze, blurred by a haze of rage that burned within his eyes.

It was fear that held her still as his gloved hand moved from her lips to the top of her collar and began undoing the buttons of her bodice, one by one with aching deliberation until the next button would have revealed the edge of her chemisette and begun a much more dangerous descent.

Dizziness enveloped her, and her breath couldn't squeeze in or out of her lungs. He leaned in and brushed his lips against her ear.

"Mine," he whispered. "Mine and no one else's, for business and pleasure."

His hand came back up and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips.

"Remember that, Mireille," he murmured, letting his mouth sample her jaw and his free hand slipped around her waist to span the small of her back.

Just as she was about to speak, he picked her up and spun her around so that the dizziness took over and the world splashed back and forth. When her head stopped throbbing a moment later, she was back in her office, alone.

At that moment, all her strength deserted her – the infallible, indefatigable, indomitable Mireille Dubienne. She sank to her knees and hugged herself, huge sobs welling up within her, choking her and tearing her weary heart into jagged, raw pieces of misery.

And there was still that damned cease and desist letter from the Vicomte de Chagny she would have to deal with.

* * *

He watched her through the spy hole, his concern growing uncomfortably. He hadn't meant to make her so distraught. Well, yes, he had, but now that he saw Mireille broken, he realized he didn't like it. Worse yet, he didn't like the fact that he had been the means of breaking her like that.

He cursed himself for not having been able to control his emotions when he saw that soft little boy Raymond holding Mireille…or more accurately, when he saw Mireille soften in that little boy's arms. It wasn't supposed to matter to him. She was prey. She was his little game, his amusement, his pawn to be played. In the end, he wasn't supposed to care if she wound up in another man's arms.

He disdained trying to rationalize his fit of jealousy as having wanted to make sure she was completely under his spell and no one else's – that he needed absolute control over her in order to make his plans work. He was man enough to admit to himself that he wanted her to desire him, to surrender to him and no one but him, and not just as a worthy opponent in a game of strategy, but as a woman surrenders to a man when yearning can no longer be fought.

It wasn't love, no. No, no. Not love at all. It was lust. Pure, heated, liquid desire for her body to be tangled with his. She'd cry his name in passion before she ever murmured an endearment to that little boy. She'd be his first.

Slipping away silently, he let his knotted thoughts unravel. What had started as a game was now something deadly serious. She knew his existence. She knew his lair. She knew his face and voice and touch. She was very dangerous. Christine hadn't been dangerous to his existence like Mireille was. Mireille could destroy him and send him to the gallows. Christine's danger had been very different, and he had experienced its consequences. Never again with that, with love, no, he'd never again walk into danger like that.

Yet, Mireille's danger was just as intoxicating and just as able to provoke a loss of control in him, as evidenced by his punishment of the walls and boards when he saw her in another man's arms. His desire, a man's desire for a woman, was becoming nearly uncontrollable every time he was near her. He wasn't even sure how many more times he could tease her without losing control of himself. God, how he wanted her! Damn her!

There was only one antidote to the poison in his veins, one way out of this haze of desire that clouded his judgment.

He would have to take her, make her his.

He would have to finish this little game of seduction once and for all.

* * *

**A/N: My apologies for being absent for so long. Life came along and put me through the wringer in so many different ways. However, I am back, and I am ready to torment Erik and Mireille some more.**

**You don't think that it's going to be easy, just because he's admitted to himself that he wants her? Oh no, my lovelies...evil cackle**

** Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September  
**


	10. Chapter 10

A knock at the door of her office made Mireille look up briefly from the sheaf of papers she was reading through.

For a moment, her temper flared, and she was tempted to tell the caller to go to hell, but she realized that it was only her bad mood and not the fault of her caller.

The events of the day before, coupled with finding a white rose on her pillow that morning, had put her in a foul frame of mind. The cast, the crew, and even Raymond had been on the receiving end of her barbs and snaps.

"Come in," she said as steadily as she could manage.

A moment later, she wished she had gone ahead and told the caller to go to hell.

Carcasonne walked into her office, his ego and large belly filling up the small space and making it hard to breathe.

"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head. "I have come to your rescue."

"I wasn't aware I was in trouble, monsieur."

"A lovely little lady isn't expected to understand the magnitude of legal troubles, my dear."

There was a beat of silence as Mireille counted. She made it to seven.

"You are referring to the letter from the attorneys for le vicomte?"

"Yes, indeed. Now, if you will hand it over, I shall take care of it for you. Best to have a man of the world handle these things, you know."

"There is no need for you to trouble yourself with this matter." Mireille's voice was icy cold, and her glare would have sent most strong men packing.

"Well, well, well, you know that we let you play at running this theater, my dear," Carcasonne purred, coming around to her side of the desk. "A girl needs amusements if she doesn't have a home to mind. But, when it comes to something serious like the law, it's best if you leave it to a man's judgment."

It was hard to count to seven even, at that point. She clenched her hands in her lap and refused to look away from Carcasonne's gaze.

"You are quite right," she said icily. "I shall be certain to consult with the Populaire's solicitors, who – you should be relieved to know – are men, as to the best course of action. However, I do not believe that the vicomte has a leg to stand on. Neither he nor the vicomtesse are heritors of the estate of the 'phantom,' and technically, Don Juan Triumphant belongs to him and not the opera. They have no grounds to object to the production nor to claim license."

Carcasonne sat down on her desk, his large rear squashing and crinkling the papers. For a fleeting moment, Mireille fervently hoped there was wet ink on one of the papers. He leaned in to her, forcing her back in her chair.

"You are getting a bit above yourself, my dear," he said, lifting his finger to tip her chin up to him. "It really is time you settled down. Now, I know you won't be able to secure a young boy like you probably want, but there is nothing wrong with an older, wiser man taking care of you. Someone like myself. After all, you're still young enough for my bedding tastes, and to look good on my arm."

"Monsieur!"

"Now, don't get all prissy on me, my dear. Consider yourself fortunate that I'm so generous. After all, you're no beauty either in face or body, and you're certainly not getting any younger. I know your father worries about what will become of you after he is gone."

"Leave him out of this!" Mireille spat, trying to scoot her chair back, only to have Carcasonne's hands shoot out and grab the arms of her chair to hold her in place.

"Think on my words, Mireille Dubienne," he hissed. "You are a woman who will be alone in the world. No money, no family, no support of any kind."

Abruptly, he let go of her chair and rose. Turning to leave, he added with a sick chuckle, "Besides, if you please me enough, I might even let you continue to play at running this theater."

Watching the door close behind him, Mireille clutched at the edge of her desk and took deep breaths. She felt nauseous and dirty, and even a little scared. Much of what he said was true, despite the cocoon of safety her father had created for her in the theater. She was a lone woman in a man's world.

Waves of heat and chill flashed through her, leaving her queasy and clammy. She needed to cool her face and wash the feeling of the slug's presence off her. Rising unsteadily, she slipped from her office and to the small washroom off the corridor..

The cold water calmed the nausea, but the anxiety remained. She had to think, untangle all the problems, deal with the vicomte, the slug, the production, the…the…the ghost...

Lifting her chin, she managed to walk purposefully from the room. No man got the best of her. It was a promise she had made herself all those years ago, and a promise she meant to keep.

Forty-five minutes of scolding various stagehands and prop managers restored a measure of equilibrium to her. She was deep in conversation with the costumer about the procurement of enough red satin for the second act costumes when she saw Raymond approaching out of the corner of her eye.

"Mademoiselle," Raymond said, addressing her formally as was his wont in front of the cast and crew. "A brief word with you?"

"In a moment," Mireille replied crisply.

"Now, please."

Mireille turned to Raymond, shocked at his assertiveness. She felt her jaw tighten even as she perceived from the expression on his face that it wasn't opera on his mind. He wanted to ask her about the day before, and that was a line of questioning that would only lead to trouble.

"I said later," she replied curtly. "And, I meant it."

He was still waiting for her when she finished speaking with the costumer. Coldly, he gestured for her precede him, and he took her into one of the dressing rooms.

"What happened yesterday," he asked, crossing his arms.

"We rehearsed for the production of Don Juan Triumphant, as far as I know."

"You know what I mean, Mireille."

"Yes, I do, but I'm not going to tell you. It's nothing you need to know or worry about."

"You disappeared – and not for the first time. That, as far as I'm concerned, is something to worry about."

"What? You can't produce without me?"

"Mireille!" He reached out to pull her into his arms, and she adroitly stepped aside.

"This is a business, Raymond. Not everything about it is pleasant or perfect. I shouldn't have to explain that to you…nor should I have to explain myself to you. You have a job, so do I. That's where it starts, and that's where it ends."

"It's only because I care, Mireille," he said, stepping forward and successfully capturing her in his arms. "I can't help it if I want you," he added, softly kissing her cheeks and forehead. "I love you, Mireille."

He wasn't prepared for the violent push she gave him, nor for the agonized look in her eyes.

"Don't ever say that again," she said flatly. "Don't ever touch me like that again. I am the manager of this theater and you are the director. That's as far as it goes."

"Why? Why can't it be more?"

"Don't make me fire you, Raymond. I will if I have to, in order to get you to leave me alone."

His face twisted from sorrow to an ugly anger. "Leave you alone? What for? So you can have more time with that ghost fellow? Is that what this is about – you want me out of the way so you can let him touch you and make love to you, and –"

Mireille's slap was hard like the way she shut the door behind her on her way out. Her mind was running on a single track now. Raymond knew. Raymond knew about the ghost somehow. She couldn't fire him now. She couldn't turn down his advances without risking him going public with the story of the ghost. She was trapped.

No, Mireille Dubienne did not get trapped. The world of men hadn't trapped her yet, and she'd be damned before a Carcasonne, a vicomte or a Raymond would checkmate her ambitions, independence and power. As for the ghost at the root of all these troubles, she found herself dismissing him and his tricks and games of seduction. He was even more trapped than she was, and she'd make him pay her back for all the trouble she endured because of him. In fact, she planned on making him quite useful in helping her get out of her sticky situation.

She reached her office again, this time locking the door behind her to avoid unwanted intrusions. A plan was starting to formulate itself in her agile mind. She was so focused on her own thoughts that she didn't notice she wasn't alone until it was too late.

"Dubienne is a woman?"

Mireille stared at the handsome young man who stood in her office, his hands resting easily on a malacca cane, and his blond hair tucked neatly behind his ears.

"Who are you?" she asked, drawing herself up to her full height, such as it was.

"I am the Vicomte de Chagny," the man replied, not even bothering to incline his head in the merest of bows. "I was expecting to speak with Dubienne, the manager of the Opera Populaire."

"Your wishes have been fulfilled, monsieur," Mirieille replied icily, moving to take a seat behind her desk and gesturing with frigid grace for the man to sit as well. "I manage the theater for my father and Monsieur Carcasonne, the primary investors and owners."

"But you're a woman!"

"Your point?"

"You shouldn't be doing this. It is unseemly! As a former patron of the opera, I insist-"

"Former being the operative word, monsieur. Since you withdrew your patronage, we have secured other funding and means of support. Forgive me, but your opinions and insisting mean very little to us now. My only responsibility is to the current investors."

"Perhaps I should speak with Monsieur Dubienne or Monsieur Carcasonne."

Mireille eyed the young man with a great deal of dislike, giving him her best governess-glare through her glasses. For a fleeting moment, she sympathized with the opera ghost's well-known dislike of the vicomte. To lose a girl to this fop must have been galling to him. Then again, Mirieille reasoned, the girl herself must have been a twit to make that choice in the first place.

Bringing herself back to the moment at hand, she looked the Vicomte de Chagny squarely in the eye and spoke.

"There will be no need to speak to either of those men, nor will there be any need for you to pursue your legal maneuvering to try and halt the production of Don Juan Triumphant."

"What would you know about legal maneuvering?"

"Enough to know that you haven't got a snowball's chance in hell of getting a judge to agree with you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

"You're sure of this, are you?"

"Absolutely. They're all season ticket holders."

"I will go to the press then, and bring the wrath of the public down on your head! Your name will be reviled in the streets, mademoiselle!"

"That matters very little so long as my bank account is full."

"No one will come if they know the phantom's opera is being performed. The press will expose you."

"Which will only serve to fill every last seat in the house. Obviously, monsieur, despite your...status...I must point out you know very little about the way business works. Now, unless you have something else to say, I see no point in prolonging this interview. I have an opera to produce."

"Have you no decency, no shame? What of the respect of a good woman's name?" The vicomte was becoming flushed and angrier with every exchange. "What of all that my wife endured?"

"Should you wish to remind all of society that you married a chorus girl, by all means bring up the issue of your wife's good name," Mireille replied coolly. "And as far as decency and shame go, I would have to say that no, I do not have any decency nor shame. After all, as you yourself pointed out, I am a woman doing business in a man's world."

"This is not the end!" the vicomte thundered, rising and smacking his cane against the ground.

"At least for today, it is," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Good day."

She watched impassively as the young man stormed out of her office, then sighed and leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples. The only thing missing from the day's parade of harassment was some nuisance from her ghost.

* * *

Even as she worked steadily through the rest of the day, she waited for the ghost to pop up, startle halfway into a decline and give her grief about Carcasonne, Raymond or de Chagny, in no particular order. The fact that the ghost didn't show himself the rest of that day was both puzzling and relieving to her, and she found herself almost...almost grateful for what undoubtedly passed for tact on his part.

As she sat that night in her bedroom, absently brushing her hair, she mulled over the day's intrigues, trying to focus her mind into marshaling a plan of action that would sweep the board of all her problems. Moving from the dressing table to the bed, she glanced at the pillows, remembering the white rose that had greeted her when she had opened her eyes.

She shivered, thinking that the ghost must have been in her room, standing by her bed, above her defenseless, sleeping form. Yet, he hadn't done anything except leave her a rose. Not that she had wanted anything more. No, not at all.

Mireille laid down on the bed, slipping under the covers and allowing herself the luxury of relaxing. Problems would still be there tomorrow...and what of her ghost...did he even have a name...and Raymond was going to be difficult...she'd have to go to the press about de Chagny before de Chagny did...make him look a whiny fool...Christine must have been a naive little twit to turn down a rose from a ghost, and...

A dark figure stepped out of the shadows and watched the sleeping woman for a long time. Silently, he deposited a white rose on the pillow next to her, then slipped away into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

Rain fell steadily outside Mireille's office window. The light from the oil lamp offered a small pool of warmth in the gloomy room.

Mireille gritted her teeth as she read through the sheaf of legal documents that de Chagny's lawyers had lobbed at her, like the opening salvo of a battle. There was a cease and desist, a confidentiality requirement, the threat of suing for slander, a potential criminal investigation…

The criminal investigation was, truth to tell, the only one that worried her. She leaned back in her chair and pressed her fingers to her temple.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and slowly sat up. No one was in the room, but she was fairly certain she had heard something in the wall. Could have been a rat, she thought fleetingly. A very, big, black rat with a penchant for the melodramatic.

"I know you're there," she said flatly. "If you have something to say, then say it. Otherwise go away."

Her eyes slid knowingly to the panel in the wall that she expected to slide open…and slide open it did, only to reveal Raymond stepping out of the secret passage and into her office.

"Raymond!" she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair.

"This is how he has spied on you, isn't it?" he replied softly, his eyes full of concern. "God, he disgusts me! How many hours has that blackguard spent, watching you, eavesdropping?"

Panic rose like a bile in her throat, but she forced it back and drew a slow, deep breath. Instinctively, she knew that she had to stay in control of this situation – for the sake of Raymond, the ghost, the production…herself.

"Raymond, listen to me—"

"The filthy monster, creeping around this theater, probably leering at all the girls, maybe even the men, who knows! When I think of him trying to touch you, I swear I want to—"

"Raymond!"

Her sharp tone stopped him. She fixed him with her most serious look and summoned all her power to her small stature.

"Listen to me, Raymond. Listen very, very carefully. I want you to leave this matter of the ghost alone. It is not your concern."

"It is my concern when he tries to harm you!"

"Have you any proof?" Mireille asked coolly, feeling slightly better at finding this edge.

He looked taken aback and didn't answer.

"Has this…ghost…made any threats, attempted to extort money, or physically threatened any member of this company?"

"The…the costumes, the backdrops…the instruments…all damaged!"

Mireille smiled coldly, narrowing her eyes. "You know as well as I do that Pierre Bupres is an enterprising young lad. Given an assignment, he takes it…very much to heart."

"You disappeared yesterday…and the times before that, Mireille." Raymond took a step closer to her, his hands clenched at his sides.

"You're not the only one who likes to explore. This is my opera house. I want to know it from top to bottom."

"And the noise from inside the wall, yesterday?"

"Rats."

"Rats?"

"Big, fat, black rats."

Raymond closed the distance between them and grasped her shoulders. Mireille forced herself not to move or flinch, and to keep her eyes fixed on him.

"You know very well that I don't buy this nonsense that you're selling," he spluttered angrily. "I'm going to go to the police straight away to get them to come in here, search the place, and get rid of this madman once and for all."

"There is no madman, Raymond."

"Yes, there is! The ghost is real!"

Mireille forced herself to laugh. "Have you seen him?" she asked teasingly.

"No, but—"

"Have you received any notes from him?"

"I don't—"

"Then, we are back to the old problem of proof. The police won't believe you without proof, and there is no proof to be had because there IS NO ghost or madman or anyone of the kind, Raymond!" Mireille's words began to get heated in spite of herself.

"I have a witness."

"What? Impossible."

"Not impossible," Raymond said quietly, cupping her cheek with his hand. "I'm looking right at her."

He seemed startled at her outburst of laughter. She stepped out of his hold and went back to her desk and sat down, leaning back in her chair like an amused businessman.

"Yes, I would be a good witness if I had actually…witnessed….anything," she said, eyeing him levelly.

"You would lie to the police?"

"I wouldn't have to lie. There are no such things as ghosts, and no one – save the Vicomte de Chagny and possibly Pierre Bupres – has created any problems for our production of 'Don Juan Triumphant.' End of story."

Raymond looked at her strangely, narrowing his eyes.

"No, not the end," he said finally. "Only the coda."

He turned and walked out of her office. Mireille let out a deep breath and stretched in her chair. Her corset was pinching her, and she felt hot and itchy from both the wool of her grey dress and her temper.

She needed to speak to the ghost, to warn him, to tell him to watch his step, to…

"I've been called many things before, but fat is not one of them."

No matter how often he snuck up on her, she still started violently every time she heard his voice. At least this time, she hadn't been holding anything. She refused to turn around in her chair to look at where the voice was coming from behind her.

"What do you mean?"

"I may be the big, black rat that lives in your walls, but I am not fat."

"I take it back. You are slender like a willow reed. There. Better? Now get out!"

A warm chuckle emanated from behind her chair and seemed to snake around to envelop her, curling into a coil of arousal in the pit of her stomach.

"I will leave when my business is done."

"Oh, then this isn't just a social call? Fancy that."

She set her jaw and crossed her arms, trying to keep the delicious quicksilver thrill of his voice from shaking her confidence. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he casually strode around her chair and came to sit on the edge of her desk, his long legs stretched out before him, one lazily resting on the other. It was an oddly informal pose for a man dressed with impeccable formality.

"I have come to tender my resignation."

"I'm sorry?" She stared at him blankly, not comprehending his words.

"I regret to inform you that I am resigning my position as opera-ghost-in-residence."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Please re-read Chapter 11 - I rewrote it, and this chapter will not make sense without it :-)**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**

* * *

"I regret to inform you that I am resigning my position as opera-ghost-in-residence."

A queer pang of regret reverberated in her chest, but she steeled herself not to let it show.

A sharp "Oh?" was all she could manage to say without sounding deflated.

He smiled at her, his eyes narrowed, his gaze weighing her words and manner. After a moment, his assessment seemed done, and he seemed satisfied, for his smile widened.

"The opera house is no longer my primary residence, as of last night," he replied nonchalantly.

"What?"

"You seem disappointed, my Mireille."

"Thrilled, actually."

"Also, I will no longer be requiring your services as my business agent."

Her heart skipped a beat.

"I beg your pardon, but are you…firing…me?"

"Clever girl."

"Thank God!"

He chuckled again, as if he had seen right through her sarcasm. She glared back at him.

"Does this mean you'll stop coming to my room at night to spy on me?" she quipped, trying to rally her fighting spirit.

"Probably not."

"Damn."

"I think you're rather relieved."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I rarely do."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. It took all of Mireille's determination to hold his hard, greenish gaze.

"I take it that my artistic director's expeditions finally made you realize that you couldn't stay here?" she asked, letting her voice drip with sarcasm.

"Hardly."

"Then why the sudden departure?"

"That is my business."

"You're not planning to burn the place down during Act I again are you?"

He stared impassively at her, making no answer. She could almost swear that she saw his jaw twitch slightly. After a moment, he stood up and walked back through the sliding panel in the wall, without a backwards look or a word goodbye.

Mireille sat staring at her desk after he had gone, chewing on her bottom lip. Perhaps she had offended him with her last statement, but then, hadn't he spent almost all of their acquaintance offending her? She felt she should be happy, finally unburdened by the "ghost." Raymond could go exploring as much as he liked now. He'd never find the ghost or any evidence that could prove his interference in the running of the theater. That was one problem solved.

So, why did she feel so forlorn all of a sudden? At least he would still come to her room and…and what the hell was she thinking? Was she actually looking forward to the fact that he spied on her in her bedroom? That he invaded its sanctity every night while she slept? That she wanted to still have him touching her existence?

"Bon Dieu, I need a drink," she moaned, then shook her head and forced herself to get back to work. One problem of an opera ghost solved, two more of Carcasonne and an angry vicomte still to deal with.

* * *

Mireille was determined to stay awake. Lying in her bed, she kept her eyes closed and focused on making her breathing slow and even. Hoping she looked like she was sleeping, she waited, listening with every fiber of her being for some sound of him entering her room. She wanted to see him, to ask him more questions, to – and heavens knew, it was hard to think of saying this word to him, of all people – apologize perhaps for her words earlier.

It was difficult to stay awake with her eyes closed and the softness of her pillows underneath her head. Just as she was convinced she was drifting off, there was a telltale click of a latch on her window. She felt the night air rush in and brush her skin, cooling it and raising goose bumps.

"You're awake, Mireille," she heard him growl.

Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, and she saw him standing at the foot of her bed. He wore a black coat and pants, as always, but no vest, and his shirt was open at the collar – probably better for climbing and window acrobatics, she thought absently.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his finger in a warning gesture. So, she settled for glaring at him and waiting for him to speak. She was expecting words from him, not the sudden ripping away of the blankets to expose her legs and bare feet. Before she could pull down hem of her prim nightgown, he was on top of her, braced on his hands and knees, his face inches from hers.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, trying to remember why she should be objecting when every nerve in her body was aching for more of him.

His answer was a hard, angry kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth and stealing her breath. He pressed his body down against hers, and she could feel the hardness of his muscles and his heat through the thin fabric that covered her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them above her head as he ravished her mouth and neck with kisses.

Somehow, without her knowing exactly how, his coat and shirt came off. Somehow, her hands were running over the hot skin of his back. Somehow, his hands found all the curves of her body. Somehow her legs wound themselves around his. Somehow, he had ripped open the front of her nightgown to expose her breasts to his bites and kisses.

There were no sounds except their mingled breathing and gasps, and the writhing of bodies against cotton sheets. She could feel the amazing pressure building up between her legs as he caressed her, his hands finally, hungrily grabbing the edge of her gown and hiking it up to her waist.

This was it. This is what she had secretly wanted. No more barriers, no more games. Only the most primal, intense love-making between two bodies in heat.

She gasped loudly as her pleasure exploded when he touched her for the first time between her legs. Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed at the sheets. The ebbing waves of pleasure gave rise to confusion. Where was he? He was just there, in her bed, on top of her…or…was he…wasn't he…

In a daze, Mireille sat up, details falling into place in the early morning light. She was still covered by blankets, her nightgown wasn't ripped. The window was securely latched closed. There was no rose on her pillow.

He hadn't come. He hadn't been there at all.

Damn!

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

"There is no such thing as a 'tactical headache,'" Mireille fumed, crumpling the piece of paper and throwing it into the orchestra pit. "She is Aminta. She knows we are two days away from the performance. There is no excuse for missing rehearsal!"

Her temper was edging out her control, and she struggled to rein in her aggravation. She might be sharp, but she made every effort not to take it out inappropriately on her staff...even on Raymond.

Ever since the day he discovered the secret passages, Raymond had been tense and watchful, focused on Mireille with an unspoken intensity that was fraying her nerves. To top it off, she was secretly afraid she was becoming obsessed with the disappearance of her ghost. True to his word, he had stopped haunting the opera house - or at least visibly haunting it. Nor did he seem to want to resume his visits to her bedroom at night. She shouldn't have minded. But, she did.

"Mireille, look, this will be a good chance for our understudy to get some practice," Raymond pleaded. "Solange knows her part. She will be here for the dress rehearsal tomorrow. She is a diva, after all, and so far, has been very un-diva-like. So she misses one rehearsal, that's a far better record than-"

"Piss off, Raymond!" she snapped, unable to bear his driveling droning any more. "We'll use Marie for now. Where is Pierre? Where is that bloody boy? There you are. You go to Mademoiselle Solange's flat and tell her that either she comes to rehearsal right now, or she can kiss her contract goodbye."

Several nearby cast raised their eyebrows at this harsh treatment, but they said nothing. Pierre grinned and scampered off. Rehearsal settled into its bumpy progress, and Mireille settled into the back of the theater, watching and thinking fell thoughts of young prima donas, lawsuits and ghosts.

Somewhere near the end of Act I, Pierre returned, breathless, but holding an envelope in his hand.

"And where is Mademoiselle Solange?" Mireille asked coldly.

"She told me to give you this," he replied, handing her the envelope. She opened it and nearly dropped it when she saw the handwriting.

_Mademoiselle Solange has decided she has health problems that preclude her from performing on an ongoing basis. A more fitting Aminta will take the stage on opening night. Marie is a suitable understudy, but she tends to go flat during the aria in Act I, scene 2. Do see if you can do something about it._

_Your most obedient,_

_Former O.G._

_P.S. Whatever happens, you are to act as if this has been your plan all along. After all, you are certainly devious enough to think of something like what I have contemplated and set in motion. _

The letter sent not altogether pleasant shivers through Mireille's frame. Aside from the total disruption of the production this would cause, there was a sinister, impersonal undertone to the letter.

"Pierre," she said in a low voice so as not to attract any attention from the stage. "I want you to make sure that between today and the reception on opening night, lots of little Opera Ghost things happen. Nothing too disastrous."

"But just enough to keep the toffs in a tizzy," the youth replied, practically salivating at the thought of legalized mischief. "Done, Mam'zelle!"

Before she could add her customary commandment of moderation, he was gone. She sat quite still and thought quite hard.

He had basically implied that if she put her mind to it, she could figure out exactly what was going to happen. The sickening part was that she probably was just as capable of cunning as he was, that they were two dysfunctional peas in a twisted pod.

An idea occurred to her, an idea so sensational, so...so...wrong, that it was almost credible. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Yet, it was so like him. It was...

Her reverie was interrupted by a muted crash from backstage and a sudden upswing in the chaos factor onstage. She sighed and turned her attention to the rehearsal.

One sunset, one sunrise, then the performance. The minutes to the dress rehearsal of "Don Juan Triumphant" relentlessly slipped through the hour glass. There was a steady, excited energy in the building, and for whole moments, Mireille forgot her dread at what she thought was going to happen.

Rumors and whispers swirled around the wings about Mademoiselle Solange, but Mireille chose not to address them, nor to answer Raymond's questions. She breathed on a semi-regular basis, but felt as if she spent the whole day holding her breath.

The moment of the dress rehearsal arrived. She helped her father - oh, how fragile he felt! - into a comfortable seat, and greeted a few of the other businessmen he and Carcasonne had invited.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Dubienne," Carcasonne boomed out as he strode down the aisle, his girth barely clearing the space between the rows. "I believe you know..."

He stepped aside, revealing the Vicomte de Chagny, an unpleasant and unhappy expression on his face.

"What are you doing here, Monsieur le Vicomte?" Mireille demanded unceremoniously, feeling that suddenly, her stays were pulled just a little to tight.

"I am here to watch Aminta take her place," he muttered, then dropped into a seat and stared sullenly in front of him at the stage.

A pit of dread in her stomach, Mireille turned around and faintly echoed the gasp of the cast as the Vicomtesse de Chagny walked out on stage, dressed as Aminta.

It was only the memory of the ghost's instructions that kept her from shaking them all and demanding answers. As it was, the woman who stood center stage was no longer a reserved young noblewoman, but she was once again Christine Daae, full of eager promise. She was achingly beautiful, and Mireille felt a wave of bitterness well up in her throat at the comparison of how plain she was next to such innocent loveliness. What was sallow next to ivory? What was angular next to curved? What was mousy hair and nondescript eyes next to glossy chestnut curls and chocolate eyes that pleaded for love from everyone?

Mireille felt sick, but there was nothing she could do. He had dealt the cards, and now she had to play her hand. The only thing she knew for certain is that she hated him.

"Ah, Madame la Vicomtesse," she said calmly. "Welcome. Are you ready to begin the rehearsal?"

"Oh yes!" Christine replied eagerly, a sweet smile curving her full lips.

"Excellent," Mireille said as evenly as she could manage. "Raymond, if you please?"

Shaking off his own shock, Raymond moved mechanically to get the performers into place, then disappeared behind the wings for the final preparations. Mireille caught sight of a faint fluttering of the curtains in Box Five and was about to dismiss it as Pierre's handiwork, when she saw him hanging about the curtain ropes in the wings.

As subtly as she could, she moved to the back of the theater, trying to make it look as if she was going to settle in and watch from that vantage point. As soon as the lights went down, she slipped silently out the door and ran back to her office. She stormed inside to find her ghost sitting in her chair, behind her desk, with his fingers steepled and a self-satisfied expression on the visible half of his face.

"What the hell?" she ground out, marching around the desk to face him.

"And good evening to you, as well, mademoiselle," he replied softly, mockingly.

"You have NO right to interfere like this with the production!"

"You handled the situation very well back there. But then, I expected nothing less of my Mireille."

"I am not your Mireille!"

He rose and closed the distance between them, his arms snaking around her waist and drawing her body against his.

"Say that now," he murmured, bending his head so that his face was a mere breath from hers.

Her heart was beating wildly in her throat, and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to wind her arms around his neck. She forced herself to go against the grain and take hold of shoulders instead and try to push him back. She might as well have tried to push away a wall. If anything, he held her more tightly.

"Why did you do this to me?" she whispered, fighting to keep the tears from welling up. "What did I ever do to you to make you want to destroy me?"

"Destroy you?" he replied softly. "Oh no, my dear. If I had wanted to destroy you, you would have long ago been at the bottom of the Seine or locked away in your room with a nice companion to watch over you."

She looked deeply into his eyes, trying to fathom his purpose, his meaning. Those eyes were hard and closed off to his soul.

"I was, in fact, saving you," he said simply, abruptly releasing her, sending her back a stumbling pace.

"Horse shit!"

"You suspected, did you not?"

"Yes, but I didn't think you'd be so foolish as to bring Christine Daae back to the stage."

"Ah, but the Vicomte can't exactly go about suing or shutting down his wife's production, now can he?"

Mireille was silent, processing the implications of his sentence.

"How does she feel about her Angel of Music being alive and well?" she asked finally.

"She doesn't know." His voice was tense.

"What do you mean? You must have seen her to tell her that she would be Aminta."

"Yes, I saw her. But she did not see me. Nor did she realize that I was present or speaking to her."

She stared blankly at his cold, uncompromising face. She realized what he was implying. Hers was not the only bedroom he visited late at night, and the thought hurt her more than she thought possible.

But everything fit now, everything fell into place. He had left the opera house to go be near the de Chagny chateau. He had traded nightly visits to Mireille to nightly visits to Christine, planting in the sleeping girl's head the suggestion that she just had to come back to play Aminta. Maybe for herself, maybe for redemption, maybe to finish something. The reason didn't matter. He had managed to convince her without revealing his existence to her - could that be a small ace in her pocket, Mireille wondered?

Yes, he had stopped the Vicomte from suing the Opera Populaire as a result, which was a relief to Mireille's business sense. And, yes, by making Christine the lead, he was going to guarantee sold-out performances every single night. Yet, Mireille couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something more to this, if he was doing this for some purpose even beyond all that.

Did he still want Christine?

Was this part of a bigger scheme to win Christine back?

Anger, unreasoning rage reared in her heart. Whatever his game, she was not going to play any more.

"Get out," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. "I am done with you."

He looked surprised for a moment, then matched her menace with his.

"Be careful how you speak to me, Mireille," he said. "It has been said I have a nasty temper."

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Language, Mireille." There was nothing lighthearted about his teasing reprimand.

"Get. Out." She punctuated each word with a stamp of her foot.

He took a step towards her.

"If I ever see your face again, I will go straight to the gendarmes and tell them everything I know," Mireille hissed, refusing to move or back down. "This is it, the end, Monsieur le Fantome! I am done with you."

With a glare that told her he was just as done with her, he turned on his heel and stalked back through the sliding panel in the wall.

That was it. It was over. Done.

She would never see him again. He would never manipulate her again. He would never spy on her again. He would never tease her, aggravate her, or out-maneuver her again.

She tried to feel thankful, but there wasn't a whole lot of thankfulness in the two tears that rolled down her cheeks.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone for your patience in waiting for these updates...especially to Hot4Gerry who encouraged me to come back and keep going.

I feel I owe my readers a brief explanation of my situation...

A year ago, I left my husband and a tragically unhealthy 15-year relationship. The divorce was finalized in September, and I am doing very well now, but the toll on me in terms of my inner strength and emotional reserve has been...significant...

I have been dealing with some significant health issues over the past six months - I had a kidney transplant in May, and am now six months into my recovery. I am very blessed and lucky, but the road is not without its...bumps...

Coming back to writing has been difficult, but with everyone's support and encouragement I am getting there.

I will try to update on a much more regular basis. Thank you again to my regular reviewers for your wit, observations and kind words. You're the reason I write these stories.

Yours in mischief,

Kate September


	14. Chapter 14

Mireille felt slightly sick. The very reality that surrounded her felt thick and oppressive, as if trapping her in bitter treacle.

The air seemed acrid and was razor sharp on her lungs. It had a tang of gaslights, too much perfume and wax. She had no need of an opera ghost. She was haunting her own production. She drifted around backstage, then was swept into the foyer to see the crowds arriving. She wore a mask, just as sure as her former ghost-in-residence had, only hers was one of confident efficiency.

This was the night of her triumph, the night of the biggest scandal of the season, and all of Paris had turned out to see it. Her father had beamed with pride as he had been escorted to his box. Even Carcasonne had seemed pleased, his mental calculations about the box office take all too evident in his eyes.

But somehow, she couldn't care. She didn't want to be there, she didn't want to see the performance, she didn't want to attend the reception. She just wanted t be at home, to be pretending that none of this had happened.

Truly, had it been that much to ask that she be able to run this theater? Hadn't she faced challenges enough? Why had this mysterious masked man decided to intrude on her life, tie it into knots, and then pull the knots tighter?

Dutifully, she took her seat in the box with Carcasonne and her father, sitting slightly back from them and fighting a dull ache in her temples.

The gasps of the audience as Christine Daae stepped out onto the stage should have been music to her ears, or at least the sound of the francs filling the cash box. Did Christine still have to look so young and fresh? Did she have to look so inspired? Did she have to have the voice of an angel?

Her eyes involuntarily turned again and again to Box Five, which remained maddeningly dark and quiet. She would have bet good money, though, that he was somewhere here in the opera house. Miss his precious Christine's triumph? Not bloody likely.

She shook her head slightly, trying to rid herself of her gloom. Where was her spirit? Her fight? Had the opera ghost finally broken her? Again, not bloody likely! She felt a resurgence of pride and lifted her chin slightly. That's right, she was Mireille Dubienne, and she was in control.

The renewed feeling of confidence carried her into the reception afterwards. The champagne was flowing, and she allowed herself one glass. She received the polite congratuations of the patrons and guests, remarks suitable for the daughter of the man who co-owned the theater. The complimented her father on his excellent management skills, and Caracasonne on his managing a great triumph. She had to smile inwardly at that, but she accepted it. Part of the bargain was she could do what she wanted, but never take the credit for it, or risk discrediting her father for letting a woman do a man's job - a highly inappropriate man's job for a proper young lady, no less.

Feeling at peace for the first time in days, she walked across the foyer, only to be arrested by a horrifyingly familiar voice.

"Mireille?"

She turned to see Philippe de Chagny striding towards her. She froze. She just barely registered the puffed, powdered blonde on his arm.

He looked about as happy as she felt.

"Monsieur le comte," she replied, nodding slightly at him, the hand holding the stem of the champagne glass white-knuckling.

"Are you happy?" he asked gruffly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You certainly got your revenge, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Dragging my family's name into the immoral mud!"

She couldn't help but snort slightly at this. "And when did you become so concerned with morality, monsieur?"

"When you lured my sister-in-law back onto the stage!"

"It was her decision, and your brother supports it."

"Because he fears for her sanity! She is hearing that damned opera ghost's voice again, and he's afraid that if he didn't allow her to sing, she'd go mad from it. You know her mental balance was not always the best."

"It has nothing to do with me, monsieur." That was the truth, ironically.

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you will, but I beg you not to importune me further...on this matter."

"So you are Mireille Dubienne," the blonde suddenly piped up. "You're nothing like I thought you'd be."

Philippe paused in his glowering to glance at the woman. "Mireille, allow me to introduce my fiancee, Mademoiselle Celestine-Rose de Beaufort-Belmont, daughter of the Marquis of Chamoix."

Mireille nodded in stunned silence, not trusting herself to speak.

"My, but she is plain, Philippe! Whatever could have possessed you?" Celestine-Rose tittered.

"I was young," he replied gruffly, eyeing Mireille narrowly.

"Neither of you are so young anymore!" the girl giggled.

"Listen, Mireille. Christine has had her little debut. I want you to get her off the stage!"

She shrugged, anger bubbling up in her and carrying her over the waves of humiliation. "Believe me, monsieur, I would like nothing better, but it is not up to me."

"Then who is it up to?"

"Madame la vicomtesse and her husband."

"You little..." he spat.

"Little what, Philippe?" Mireille spat back. "Little...what? What did you make me? Hmmm?"

"This is not over."

"Oh, but it is, monsieur. Very much over. Bon soir." She swept away from them, head carried high, disdain filling every fiber of her being. Tears would come later.

The interlude had left her unequal to dealing with other guests, and she simply hid behind a potted palm in a shadowy corner, clutching her empty champagne glass.

"That color is terrible on you."

She was disgusted with herself at the wave of relief she felt at hearing that voice again. Somehow, her spirit felt better and stronger at the presence of her former antagonist.

"Go away."

"You've told me that before."

"I meant it before."

He chuckled, a warm rolling sound that filled her and thrilled her. Damn him!

"And what did the good comte have to say?"

"Guess."

"I don't mean about Christine. Guessing that is child's play. What I want to know is what he said to make you so very upset."

"I look upset?"

"Only to the one who knows you best."

She couldn't think of a suitable retort, and so remained silent, wanting to force him to speak more, to make the next in their infernal chess game.

"You wish me to guess? Very well. You and he had some kind of relationship many years ago, and he broke it off - or perhaps you broke it off. It ended badly. The wounds go deep in your soul and have never healed."

Impossible to answer him! Impossible to admit it. Impossible to speak without choking on tears.

"What are your intentions for Madame la vicomtesse now that she has debuted on my stage?"

"On my stage."

"Not this again."

"She will continue to perform for the run of the opera. After that, we shall see."

"Are you scheming to get her back?"

His silence indicated that perhaps she had induced an equal amount of impossibility in replying for him.

"Check," she added lightly, thinking of their chess game.

"Hardly."

She was about to reply when a bevy of shouts roused her attention, and she looked over to the crowd that had gathered around her father just in time to see him collapse.

"Papa!" she cried and ran over to him, all else forgotten.

It was too late.


	15. Chapter 15

Dull. Dull as dust, dull as darkness, dull as death. Bleak and blank and utterly uninterested in most everything.

Mireille passed the few weeks between the tragic debut of "Don Juan Triumphant" and the reopening of the production in a kind of stupor. Her edges were blunted. Her words were slurred. Her manner lacked any spark of life.

Grief pressed in on her so deeply, so fundamentally, that it left little room for anything else. Lawyers came an went. The house she had grown up in came and went. Her few remaining belongings were moved to a modest room in the flat of a fat, lifeless, respectable widow who would "look after" the single Mireille. The bulk of the fortune, entailed away from the female line, went to a cousin, a dilettante of the first order. Ownership of the Opera Popular went to Carcasonne in its entirety.

But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Papa was gone. Her true love and best friend. Her constant source of solace and strength from the time she could remember...he was gone. Without even a chance to say goodbye.

Could she ever forget the horrific sight of her father's unseeing eyes staring at the glaring chandelier of the foyer? The unsightly sagging of his half-open mouth and the uncomfortable splaying of his limbs?

The endless parade of mourners, distant family, social calls, condolence bouquets, thank you notes, and mundane trivialities of eating and sleeping had worn Mireille down to her most fundamental elements of basic survival. Eat for subsistence. Sleep when the body collapses. Smile sweetly yet sadly when the occasion demands.

The Opera Popular seemed a dream, a little game for a child to play under the vigilance of an indulgent parent. Now that the parent moldered in an expensive mahogany casket below the damp earth in Pere Lachaise, there seemed little point in proving anything. She sometimes wondered if she had tried so hard to be a man in a man's world to give her father the son he never had. Yet, he had seemed content with his daughter. Then, what had she been doing? To build an illusion of impregnability after Philippe had abandoned her? To salvage a dignity that was already destroyed?

Even the Opera Ghost now seemed just a vacant, idle game. Nothing mattered. No one mattered.

Everyone said that the pain would lessen, that time would heal her. What did they know, with their lips sticky with chicken shit and their hearts full of deceitful pity?

Days passed into weeks. Mireille sat by the window or in the chair by the low-burning fire, listlessly staring at the air as if her papa could miraculously materialize from it.

"Mireille?" Raymond's voice was soft and gentle, just as it had been from the moment of the tragedy.

"Raymond, how are you?" Her voice sounded flat to her, but flat was how she felt.

"I'd be better if I saw some color in your cheeks. Why don't you come outside with me? Just for a short turn about the block?"

"If you wish." Acquiescing was less effort than protesting. She let him even tenderly wrap her shawl around her shoulders and perch the black hat on her head.

It was grey and heavy outside, the air weighing down on the buildings of Paris as if the sky was only supported by their roofs. Mireille let Raymond slip her arm through his, and walked docilely by his side.

"Performances have resumed, per the orders of Carcasonne," he remarked.

"That's good."

"Everybody misses you. Will you come back?"

"I cannot."

"Cannot or will not, my dear?"

"Cannot. Do you truly think Carcasonne would allow me the same scope and authority as my fa..father did? It was only by his good grace that I had any voice in the management at all."

"But we will all support you."

"You will be out of work in a heartbeat. Carcasonne is owner now. He is the manager of the theater. You must accept that."

Raymond smiled sadly and paused in their strides to take her in his arms.

"You were worlds better than he could ever be," he said. "Let me be ruled by a woman, so long as you are the woman!"

His words roused a faint chuckle from her, and she did not struggle in his embrace. It was...real. It was anchored to reality and perhaps to a future - even if she couldn't see it fully. He was warm and gentle and good. He had come everyday since her father's death. Every day. Without fail.

And she was grateful to him.

"Tell me, is the vicomtesse still singing Aminta?"

"No," he shook his head and chuckled. "She retired after one night. Solange is again our Aminta."

"But...without any...mishaps or...anything..uh..untoward?" Mireille stammered, shocked out of her dullness for a moment by her surprise.

Raymond studied her keenly before he said, "No, not a single incident of...anything has occurred. It has been...peaceful at the theater."

Mireille forced a slight laugh. "Then you should reprimand Pierre Bupres for not doing his job!" she replied.

"He has been let go."

"What?"

"Carcasonne fired him the day after the...the debut."

"But Pierre was..."

"I know."

Mireille chewed her lip. Something stirred but died out before it had a chance. "That is too bad," is all that would come out.

"Won't you come back?"

"I can't."

He sighed and pulled her in tighter to his embrace, where she went uncomplainingly. "As long as I can still see you, I can't complain, but it will be sad news to the others. They miss you."

"And to think I believed they could hardly stand me."

"You pushed them to be their best for the sake of being the best. Carcasonne only pushes them for the sake of the box office."

"I cared about the box office, too!"

Raymond laughed as raindrops began to drop with round plops on their faces. The rain felt cool and new on her skin, and she turned her face up to it. Raymond's lips found her upturned ones, and she didn't object. She didn't encourage him, either.

"You are not alone, my dearest," he whispered against her lips. "I am here for you, and I wish to be always here for you. Don't answer me now, but just know that it is my dearest wish to make you my wife."

"Raymond!"

"Shhh. It is too soon to speak further, and I know it."

The hustle and bustle of the streets with their omnibuses and carriages faded into a buzzing in the background as Mireille tried to swallow this new development. Wordlessly, she allowed Raymond to bring her back to the flat and remove her hat and shawl. She watched as he stoked the fire in the hearth and poured her a small glass of red wine.

"I must get back now," he said, tenderly kissing her on the cheek. "I will come again tomorrow."

She smiled, trying to put real feeling into it, for she was grateful for kind, kind Raymond.

"I will see you then," she said softly.

After he had left, she sat for a long while, staring out the window at the rainy street below. It felt as though a species of fog was lifting slowly from her brain, and she found herself thinking quite clearly and coolly about her present situation and her prospects.

Orphaned and under the guardianship of Jean-Paul de la Filumette, a man who spent more on his toilette than she spent on a week's operation of the Opera Populaire, she was penniless and powerless in the eyes of the world.

The will had provided a small stipend to be paid out of the income from the interest on the investments of the inheritance money. But she had her suspicions that if Jean-Paul's spending habits continued to spiral, that allowance might quietly disappear.

She could no longer work at the Opera Populaire Carcasonne had made that clear. And there were pitifully few other options for female employment suitable to her genteel yet impoverished status. She was a terrible seamstress, too grumpy to sell hats, too allergic to run a flower shop, and too short-tempered to be a governess or ladies' companion. Even if she had wanted to go with the far more profitable, though immoral, route of being a courtesan, she was too old and too plain.

Marriage truly was her only escape. She knew that Jean-Paul would rejoice at the chance to offload her and end her allowance, so there would be little trouble there. Carcasonne could not interfere. Raymond was a good man, and he would provide a modest but comfortable home for them. And she was fond of him. Perhaps in time, fondness would grow into something more.

She smiled ruefully. Well, it was as good a plan as any, and certainly the best of her choices right now.

She had decided. She would marry Raymond once the rest of her requisite mourning period had passed, securing her future, just as her father had hoped she would do.

The thought of her Opera Ghost flitted through her mind with a queer pang of regret that she never got to finish the battle with him. He had been a worthy opponent. She laughed a little at the thought now that he was Carcasonne's problem now.

Yes, she would marry Raymond Lefevre, and all would be well.

* * *

The rain lashed against the window, and she dozed fitfully in bed, waking to listen to its pelting rhythm. There was a slight noise, something inside not outside, that she couldn't quite identify, something that made her sit bolt upright.

Then the darkest shadows of her room moved, and he stepped out into her line of sight.

"You!" she exclaimed, forgetting to pull the sheet up modestly over herself.

He let out a disgusted sigh. "You just had to pick a fourth story flat on a busy street, didn't you?"

"What?"

"This visit took some planning."

She found herself prey to too many emotions, so settled for glaring at him. "I wonder that you came at all."

"I thought it was only fitting."

"Fitting? For what?"

"To call upon you before we were married."

For a moment, Mireille seriously doubted she had heard correctly. It sounded so wrong. It sounded suspiciously like he had said something about getting married.

"I beg your pardon?" she said slowly and deliberately.

"On Friday, we shall have a small, private ceremony at 5:00 o'clock at the registry in Rue de la Guimette."

"I'm sorry, I think I must still be half asleep because my Opera Ghost has just waltzed into my room and announced that I will be marrying him in two days time. You'll forgive me if I seem confused."

"Stupid girl! Think! It is the best and only possible solution to your problems...and to mine."

She couldn't help but smile, thinking of Raymond as the trump card she held...and continued to hold.

"I have no interest in marrying you, monsieur," she replied demurely. "Even if I had, there are still eleven months of mourning that must pass before I may marry."

"Since when were you conventional?"

"Since my circumstances changed so...drastically."

"You are being difficult."

"Am I?"

"You are a penniless orphan now."

"Thank you for your condolences."

"Do you really want any more sympathy?" he snorted, taking a step closer to the bed.

"No," she admitted quietly, realizing that she was thankful for him not slathering on the words of sympathy and loss. "But what I still don't understand is why you think this scheme would serve any purpose whatsoever," she added.

"I have my reasons."

"Do share. You fascinate me, as usual."

"Do you want to marry Carcasonne?"

"Of course not."

"Then you had better marry me."

"Ridiculous!"

"Monsieur de la Filumette didn't think so. He thinks it an excellent match, and the ceremony is set for Saturday at noon."

"What!"

"At 3:00 o'clock on Friday, you will express the need to take some air, just a turn about the block. You will proceed to the corner of Rue Montpiete and Rue Masbourg. A carriage will be waiting for you there. Take nothing with you, lest you rouse their suspicions."

"This is ridiculous! This cannot be happening!"

He remained silent and simply studied her from the foot of her bed.

"This morning, I had no prospects, and now I have three offers of marriage," she added, shaking her head and trying not to laugh hysterically.

"Three?" The word was sharp.

She looked up, realizing she had slipped. She felt her cheeks burn slightly and looked away, as she mumbled, "Raymond announced his wishes."

His silence was as loud as yelling, and she didn't dare look at him.

"Three o'clock on Friday," he said softly, but his words were sharp and slicing. Then he stepped back into the shadows. There was a stirring of the curtains and a quick breeze, and he was gone.

"Three o'clock," she whispered to the shadows, and only silence answered.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your warm welcome back. I am definitely trying to get back into the swing of things after a hectic winter of health issues with my transplant, and the delightful surprise of becoming engaged and planning a wedding for June! Your encouragement and reviews keep me going!**

**Yours in Mischief,**

**Kate September**

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

**This is dedicated to Hot4Gerry and all the other wonderful readers who have nagged me to continue this story. You guys are the best. Forget virtual cookies…you get a virtual 3-layer chocolate cake.**

* * *

Mireille sat in the small sitting room, staring at the porcelain clock on the mantel. The hands were at 2:49 and traitorously inched closer to 2:50. It wouldn't be long before she had to decide whether to walk away from everything and marry a madman or face…face marrying a different kind of madman.

The fact that she had put off making the decision this long was probably the most disturbing thing about all of this. She had let the opportunities to run away, to elope with Raymond, to protest to her guardian all slip by her without protest. Now, her only choice was one choice.

Her eyes watched as the minute hand slid over another notch. 2:54.

She felt numb and sick. What was the opera ghost up to? What was his game, his plot, strategy? Where did Christine Daae, or rather la Vicomtesse de Chagny fit into all of this? What was this all about? Would this be a legally binding marriage? Would he marry her before a priest? What in heaven's name was he doing?

There was only one way to find out.

Rising, she went to her room and fetched her slightly shabby black mourning bonnet and tied it into place. She took nothing with her, as instructed.

Her mind was foggy and frantic as she feigned calmness and returned to the sitting room. Agnes de la Filumette, the aged spinster aunt of her guardian looked up and frowned at her.

"Where are you going?" she rasped severely.

"Just to get some air, madame," Mireille replied dutifully. "Merely a turn about the block."

"Alone? That is not appropriate. Take Jeanette with you."

"But I shall return in a few minutes. There is no need to take Jeanette away from her duties."

"I say you will take Jeanette!"

"And I say I will not," Mireille retorted with some heat – more than a hint of her old self in her voice. "I will be back in a quarter of an hour."

She inclined her head with the barest amount of civility she could get away with and stormed out of the room. Before anyone could follow her, she quickly slipped down the stairs of the building and out the front door.

She made her way through the quietly busy streets to the corner of Rue Montpiete and Rue Masbourg. Just as the Opera Ghost had promised, a nondescript closed carriage waited there. Taking a deep breath, she walked right up to it. Glancing up at the coachman, she nodded, and he bowed his head in return, as if acknowledging that she was the person he had been waiting for.

The carriage rattled through the streets, and Mireille sat quietly, staring out the window, but hardly paying attention to the easy rolling of everyday life past her eyes. A pit in her stomach started to form as she realized what she was truly doing, what she was committing to. What was she thinking?

Suddenly, as if she had just awakened from a dream, everything became painfully clear to her. It was like the Opera Ghost had cast some sort of spell on her when he came to her that night, just a few days ago, and just like an idiot, she had allowed herself – because of her grief, but that was really no excuse – to fall under his spell and be swept along.

Angrily, she reached forward and banged on the carriage wall.

"Stop at once!" she yelled. "I wish to get out!"

There was no response, and if anything, the carriage picked up speed. She banged on the walls again, and then gave up on that. She tried the doors, but they had been set to lock from the outside, and she was locked in. Frantically, she tried to lower the windows, only to find they were locked. She ripped off her boot and started banging it against the glass of the window, striking with all her might.

The window cracked, a spider web of destruction spreading over it, and finally shattered enough for her knock out the most jagged pieces and stick her arm out to try and reach for the handle.

"'ere now! Stop that!" the driver yelled at her.

"Then stop the carriage!"

"Orders is orders, mam'zelle. Now you get back in there before you get hurt!"

It was too late for that. Careful as she had been, the glass had sliced through one arm of her dress and into her skin. Blood was flowing freely down her arm and dropping in big, ruby tears onto the wood and leather of the carriage.

Injury didn't stop her from trying to reach the door handle on the outside. Her hand grasped it, and she tugged instinctively, not realizing how heavily she was leaning on the door. It swung open while the carriage was still in motion, flinging Mireille into the street, her arm still hung around the door. If she let go, she would be thrown into the deadly chaos of the other carriages, horses and omnibuses nearly collided with her, and yet, she was too weak to pull herself back in. Her head struck something hard. Blood dripped onto her face from her arm, and she felt herself trying to hold on to consciousness just long enough to…to…

The carriage jerked to a stop, and she was vaguely aware of someone roughly shoving her back into the compartment, and that was all she knew.

* * *

She woke slowly, with memory coming back piecemeal to her. Blinking hard, she tried to adjust her eyes to the dim light around her. She sniffed, catching the scent of heavy incense. Slowly, she became aware of heavy silks around her body, and the bed she lay on was low and wide, and enclosed by light, gauzy curtains that made everything else in the room blurry.

Sitting up gingerly, she winced as her arm screamed in protest. She glanced down at all the bandages that were wrapped around it and made a face. Suddenly, she saw something else in the room move. A tall, dark figure rose from some sort of chair and seemed to carry the shadows with him as he approached the bed.

Mireille shrank back, even though she guessed who it might be, proving herself right when the Opera Ghost gently pulled apart the gauzy curtains at the foot of her bed. Beyond him, she could catch a glimpse of low couches, silk pillows and brass ewers on low, carved tables. Ornate glass and brass lanterns burned low, and carved sandalwood screens stood in the corners. There were no windows, and only one double door at the far end of the room. The place reeked of Oriental elegance, but that was just background to what she really beheld, which was the man who had caused her so much trouble in the past, and who was still causing her trouble.

"Well?" she demanded angrily.

He said nothing but smiled a bit. He wore his dark jacket, but no vest or cravat. It was as if he had been there sometime and simply made himself comfortable.

"I'm waiting."

He let his eyes roam speculatively over her body, and she suddenly realized she was wearing not only an entirely-too-clingy silk nightgown, but that there wasn't that much of it, either. She pulled the covers up over her chest, looking up at him furiously.

He chuckled, a low, seductive purring sound that made her toes curl in exactly the wrong sense of anticipation.

"I would like an explanation," she hissed.

"Would you care to see your apartments?"

"No, because I shan't be staying here. Where are my clothes?"

"Gone."

"What?"

"You shall wear what I provide you now."

"I most certainly will not. You had better return my things to me at once, you…you…"

"Say it!" he hissed, his eyes narrowing.

"You scheming, arrogant, selfish piece of shit!"

His expression flickered silently. "I wasn't expecting that," he murmured.

"What, you thought I was going to call you something derogatory to do with your physical appearance? That's not your fault, and so I can't pick on you for that. But I _can_ call you on the carpet for you behavior, which has been reprehensible in its entirety!"

He stared at her, then faster than a snake strike, he grabbed the covered with one hand and twitched them out of her grip before she could think, leaving her uncovered in her far-too-revealing nightgown. She scrambled to push her self back on the bed, but he grabbed her ankle and dragged her forward, the movement pushing the silk up her legs until it clung just barely below her hips.

He savagely yanked her into his arms, one arm wrapped around her waist and holding her up, the other firmly holding her jaw so that she couldn't turn away.

"Stop this!" she gasped, struggling as much as she could while still trying to keep the nightgown covering the important bits. "What do you want from me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he growled, his breath hot on her skin.

"No! Not that!" she cried out, even though her body was crying out for exactly the opposite.

"Am I that repulsive to you?" he asked quietly.

"No, no, of course not that, but –" she didn't' get a chance to speak any further because he suddenly laid her back down on the bed and bent over her, his hand moving from her waist to caress the curve of her hip and thigh as he held it against his side. He braced himself with his other arm and lowered himself until his face was almost touching hers.

"Then what exactly are your objections?" he breathed.

Her mind was a complete blank for a moment and couldn't think of a single reason why she shouldn't let the Opera Ghost of the Opera Populaire ease the burning in her body. She fought her way back to the edge of coherent thought and squirmed out from under him, pushing herself back towards the headboard.

But he matched her, move for move, keeping her under him and moving on his hands and knees like some giant jungle cat stalking its prey.

"Why me?" she gasped finally, when there was nowhere left to go and was backed up against the headboard.

"Why not you?"

"It's not like it was at the Populaire. I can't be your agent or do anything for you any more. There's no reason to taunt me."

"Perhaps I enjoy it."

"What about Christine?"

"What about her?" he replied, his expression unchanging.

"She's the one you want in this bed, not me."

"Actually…no."

Mireille stared at him, dumbstruck. He smiled slightly at her expression, then wrapped his hand around her shoulder and pushed her down onto the pillows. He let his hand travel down from her shoulder to her chest, down between her breasts and abdomen until it struck the line of her waist and hip again, where it finally came to rest.

She gasped for air like a drowning man and made one more desperate lunge for the life raft of reason.

"You didn't answer my question," she whispered. "Why me?"

Abandoning her waist, he tugged one strap off her shoulder, and let his fingers trace the line of fabric across her chest, teasing it slightly lower without revealing the true prize. She froze and swallowed hard, feeling her grasp on reason slip as the waters of desire closed over her head.

"You can still be…quite useful to me," he said, lowering his lips so that they brushed her ear. "I have a new venture that requires me to have…a competent agent."

With those words, her heart, which had been thumping furiously, gave one last _gallump_ and fell back into the slower, more sober pace of logic. All the desire in her body fizzled out, leaving nothing but a char of humiliation.

She fought the pricking of tears behind her eyes. He didn't want her. It was just his usual game. She bit her lip and pushed against him with all her might, a surge of righteous anger swelling through her. How could he have been so cruel, so mean to humiliate her like this? To tease her that he wanted her like a man wants a woman, only to reveal her true worth to him: a glorified business manager.

He allowed himself to be pushed away, sliding off the bed easily, and regarding her with a lazy, sardonic look in his eyes.

"You will bring me my clothes this instant!" she fumed.

"I already told you that wouldn't be possible," he said in the most mild, reasonable voice.

"I will not be party to any of your schemes any more!"

"Would you rather marry Carcasonne?"

She bit back her retort and squared her shoulders. "I will not do anything you ask me to."

"I thought that would be your response. That is why, dear mademoiselle, I have selected these apartments for you."

"What do you mean? Where am I?"

"You are in a rather…specialized…house of assignation."

She felt her heart drop into her stomach. "Specialized?" she managed to rasp out.

His smile was cruel and mocking now. "Yes, for those patrons with…unique tastes and unusual propensities. You will remain here until you agree to be my agent again."

"I will not! I will protest to the madam, and she will not take kindly to the idea of police action against her for unlawful imprisonment!"

His smile widened a fraction. "Of course you may leave your room at any time to go speak to the madam. Your door shall remain unlocked at all times, unless you choose to lock it from the inside. However, I have also left instructions…and enough monetary incentives behind it…that should you leave your apartments, you are to be made available to any customer desiring your…company."

"People will be looking for me!"

"Who exactly, my dear? You are a near-penniless orphan, a drain on your guardian. An escape or suicide or elopement is certainly not beyond the pale for one such as you. Carcasonne might fret a bit about losing his prize, but he'll move on."

"Raymond will look for me."

"Ah yes, Raymond. A good boy, but not very creative. He won't have the slightest idea of where to look, and he will give up long before he comes close to the truth."

He took a step towards her, and she forced herself to hold her ground.

"I'm afraid you are quite alone, and quite dependent on my good will," he purred.

"And if I were to say yes?"

"Then you would of course be free to leave this place. Other arrangements would be made for you."

She blinked back angry tears and turned her back on him. She couldn't afford to let him see how upset she was. She needed to buy herself time. To think, to analyze, to plan an escape.

"Please leave," she said as evenly as she could manage. "I will think on what you have offered."

She felt his arms slink around her, and his massive body press into hers as his lips once again burned her ear.

"Do that," he whispered. Then he was gone.

She looked around for him, then ran to the door and locked it securely. Then, she began to pace, stalking back and forth across the room, her brow furrowed.

She would find a way out of here. She wouldn't marry Carcasonne. She'd make a new life for herself.

And she would make him pay.


	17. Chapter 17

He stood in the shadows to the side of her door, just as he had three times a day, every day, for the past week.

She hadn't tried to escape. Yet. He hadn't expected her to make an attempt, either. His Mireille was not stupid. She would wait to see the various servants who came, judging their relative strength and stupidity until she found her mark.

He had happily played into that game with her, arranging that the servants be progressively smaller, weaker…and more feminine. Little Sandrine now entering the room was barely more than a child, perhaps fourteen at most. She had served Mireille now for two days. His stubborn opera house manager should be just at her breaking point, ready to make a break for it, despite the fact that she wore considerably less than most of the bold whores who lounged about the house and strode through the halls.

Ah yes, the selection of Mireille's wardrobe had admittedly been decadently pleasurable. If it wasn't sheer, it had been short. If it wasn't short, it had plunged deeply in the front and back. If it wasn't plunging, it was satin that rubbed against her skin in way guaranteed to produce a burn…a burn that he would play on and play to…build it into a flame he fervently prayed he wouldn't be burned by.

But he needed her. And she needed him. There was no love in his heart for this broken spinster, but there was…pity. And admiration for her courage.

And despite the dullness of her grief, there was that grand spark still in her that made him feel alive.

This little stay in the Maison Cardinal was not about breaking Mireille to the point where she was the simple puppet that jumped at ghosts – bitter memories of past mistakes rose like bile and were pushed down. No, this was about fanning the spark into a roaring blaze that would bring Mireille back and fill his life with the thrill of battle.

She was a worthy opponent, and she could be a supreme ally – though not an easy one. He fought not to smile as he thought of the ways he would try to win their arguments.

No, at this moment, he watched little Sandrine knock on the door and announce herself. If not this time, then the next, he felt. Mireille lacked his endless patience, just as he could benefit from her relentless drive.

Ah! There it was, the clatter of plates to the ground. In a flash, Mireille was out the door, but he was faster…and, he was prepared.

The Punjab Lasso snapped around her neck, and only his extreme control kept it from instantly cracking her fragile bones.

"Actions have consequences, Mireille," he hissed, catching her to his body, the slack of the rope looped around his fist as he brought his grip up close to her neck. "I keep my promises, Mireille."

Ah God, it was good to feel her body against his! He held his little hellcat against his form as he practically dragged her through the sitting room back into the bedroom and locked the door.

He spun her around, deftly moving the Punjab Lasso from her neck to her wrists, tying them together. Before she could even realize what was happening, he had her on the bed, wrists yanked above her head by the rope he held as he straddled her and pinned her down with his hand around her throat.

Her gasps were harsh and inarticulate as she took in the vital air that had been denied her, but her eyes were eloquent in their rage. That rage was a potent drug for him, and though it was a menacing sneer that he approached his face to hers, inside, he was flying.

"Do you want to know what would happen to you if you were to leave this room before I give you permission?" he snarled. "I will show you!"

"You motherless jackanapes!" Mireille yelled as best she could. "You…you…lily-livered toad! You are a-"

He paused, waiting for it. Monster. It was there already echoing in his head.

"A pudding-bellied ox!" she finished, thrashing against him.

"Your vocabulary has improved," he sneered, trying to cover up the confusion he felt that she had once again not used the easiest weapon to hand, the one literally right in front of her face.

"The only damn book in here is a volume of Shakespeare!"

He allowed himself a grim chuckle as he studied the woman beneath him. He had known she would try to escape. He had planned her punishment for days. It was to be complicated, designed to both frighten and seduce her, forcing her to turn to him finally and completely. However, it called for restraint on his part…and on hers. He secured the rope he held to the bed post and release her throat.

"Ah, but there is so much more to Shakespeare than insults," he purred, allowing himself to begin by running his hand up her flat belly and between her breasts until it cupped the back of her head.

His fingers suddenly dug cruelly into her hair and yanked her head back. It would have been so easy to kiss her lips like this, but somehow, that didn't seem right. A kiss was…a sacrament of lovers, a blessing to be given, and in many cases a commodity to be sold. He did not love Mireille, but she was no whore, either.

Her throat was arched and bared to him, a long, white line of perfection. Instead of a kiss, he drew the tip of his tongue up from her collar bones to the lobe of her ear, scraping his teeth along the soft flesh.

"Stop!" Mireille gasped, struggling against him and pulling futilely against the ropes on her wrists. "Stop it! You have no right!"

"'I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure'," he quoted, speaking with his lips against her throat, his rumbling voice creating a vibration against her tender skin.

"My pleasure would be to rip your balls off-oh!" Her words were strangled by the way he firmly grabbed her thigh and hitched her leg around his hips.

"'That I might touch! But kiss, one kiss'," he recited, using the magnificent instrument of his voice to convey a hunger, desire and obsession that would shake Mireille to her bones.

He suited word to action, then, moving to cup her satin-covered breasts in his hands and press a chaste kiss against one, feeling the hard nub rise up to his lips. How could a man resist such a silent plea?

Yet, was he even a man? Never had he touched a woman this way. Never even been kissed until Chris-no, this was no time for her name. Mireille had been the first woman truly in his arms, the first to feel his heat against her, and yes, even the first to respond. He could not doubt that.

Given a natural yet embarrassing lack of experience, he still felt the grace of instinct as he teethed at the satin-covered nipple, moving from one to the other until both were pert and marked by damp spots on the satin.

He glanced up at Mireille, suddenly noticing she had fallen silent save for deep, shuddering breaths, and that her thrashing had turned to arching. Her eyes were heavy and half-lidded, full lips pouting slightly.

He was already hard, but the sight of her lost in lust and helplessly tied to the bed made him throb in the agony of need. He couldn't afford to give in, though, to lose the game just yet. He had to stay in control somehow.

It didn't help that she was beginning to slowly buck and grind against him, her inexperienced hips moving with a tentative urgency. He grit his teeth. No! He would not be unmanned like that.

"'I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap'," he growled, grabbing her hips in an iron grip and stilling them.

"No..anh…" Mireille grit her teeth then bit her lower lip in a way that nearly had him lunging to kiss her, to bite that lip himself. "Let…me…go," she panted.

"The lesson has only just begun, Mireille," he said softly, effortlessly raising her bottom up toward him. "You are my finest instrument. I will make you sing."

She struggled against the ropes again. Next time, he realized he would have to use silk. There would be bruises, burns and cuts on those little wrists when they later came to untie her. But let her struggle for now. Let her feel the slide into surrender as her body turned traitor to her.

He hummed his approved of the rose-colored satin against his skin as he nuzzled his face between her thighs. Her scent was pungent and musky, even covered as she still was. He brought his lips to the satin-covered treasure and began to use his teeth and tongue to tease, letting the fabric rub against the sensitive flesh.

Soon enough, his Mireille was bucking against his lips, frustrated cries falling from her lips as he knew she began to sense that even a release like this would not satisfy her. If it left her hungry for more, it left him ravenous down to his soul.

Later, he would reflect on this precious time spent so close to a woman's body, but for now, all he could do was think of her cries and her honey.

She wailed and sobbed in frustrated ecstasy as she climaxed, and he felt her muscles convulse against his lips and tongue. Pride rolled through him. Monster though he might be, he could still please a woman, just like any other man!

Oh God, it would be so easy to pull up the hem of this gown and slip himself into her, to feel what every man felt with a lover or a wife. No. No, the game. He had to play the game. Grinding his teeth, he lowered her and saw the dazed eyes and unheeded tears.

His heart gave an odd lurch, and he had the urge to untie her, but he was still enough himself to restrain that impulse.

Instead, he slowly wiped his lips with his fingers, then brought them up to inhale deeply of her scent. He saw as her eyes went wide as she watched him do that, two red spots burning now in her cheeks.

He allowed himself a wry smile at how she could still be shocked in her innocence.

"I hate you," she said finally, the struggle in her voice for flat calm audible.

"You are impassioned by me," he corrected, leaning over her, bringing their faces close enough that he could have kissed her. Had he wanted to.

"What is it you want?" she asked finally, and he heard the first crack in the cup. "To destroy me?"

"No."

He allowed himself the luxury of softly rubbing his good cheek against hers – just as any man would do with any woman.

"I know what you want, Mireille," he said, making his voice soft like a lullaby. "I know what you crave. You like power. You like games, and you like winning."

He caressed a hand down her side, feeling her shiver against the sensation.

"I can give you what you want," he continued to chant softly. "I can give you the power you desire."

"You have nothing that I want!" she retorted, but the vicious snap was lacking in her voice. Another crack in the cup.

He brought his lips kiss-close to hers and whispered:

"I can give you an opera house."


End file.
